LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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OP 



James DeRuyter Blackwell. 



IN THREE VOLUMES. 



VOLUME I. 

■ ■ 



Neto Dork: 

Published for the Author, by E. J. Hale & Son, 



17 Murray Street. 
1879. 






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Copyright entered 
By James DeRuyter Blackwell. 



Jtyraim 



On page 44, third line from top : 

"Not made to look upon the view," 

Should read : 

u Not formed to look upon the view." 



Smttetfe* 



PAGE 

Evening - " 9 

The Clear Blue Sky - 10 

Restore tbose Stars 11 

My Days are Passing as a Stream - - - - 13 

Memory 14 

Echo ----------- 15 

Our Native Land • - 16 

'Tis Quiet now in Tempe's Yale 18 

Extract from an Unpublished Poem - - - - 19 

The Blind Girl 20 

We are Passing Away 22 

Forget not the Dead - 23 

The Outer and Inner World ----- 24 

Memory 26 

The Vanished Dew Drop 27 

War ------ 28 

The Unknown Grave - - 42 

The Dead Drummer Boy - - 43 

Napoleon at St. Helena 45 

Marius Amidst the Ruins of Carthage - - - - 48 

The Blood of Martyrs - - - - - - 50 

To Ex-Governor William Smith, of Virginia - - 51 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Ode from Anacreon 53 

On Marshall's Pillar 54 

En Solitaire 56 

The Broken Shaft - - - 51 

To Colonel John S. Mosby 59 

To Rev. W. E. Munsey - - 61 

Stonewall Jackson's Way 62 

On the Death of a Beautiful Young Lady 63 
On a Picture of Schiller in Youth - 64 
Extract from an Unpublished Poem. The Lines Refer- 
ring to the Late R. E. Scott, from Virginia - 66 

Summerfield 68 

John Wesley in Old Age 70 

Bunyan in Bedford Jail 72 

The Late Rev. S. Ashbury Roszel 74 

To the Rev. Dr. Murkland 77 

To Virginia 78 

Edward the Third over the Body of the Black Prince 79 

When I am Gone - - 82 

Appeal of Southern to Northern Soldiers 83 

Farewell to Summer Guests 84 

Life 86 

I Wonder Where are all the Boys! ... 88 

The Bride's Return 90 

Oh, Sing to me that Song again I - 91 

Pledge them in Silence 92 

God has a Work for Thee to do 93 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Chatterton in Bristol Mead 95 

My Humble Cot 96 

Dwell not on Departed Joys 98 

To One who Knows - - 98 

To the Dandelion - 100 

Young Loye 102 

The Skylark in Australia - 103 

Summer Bird in Winter - 105 

Stanzas - - 106 

Amatory Song --__.... 107 

The Uncoffined Dead ------- 108 

Lines — Do not Enyy 110 

The World is not a Bower of Ease - - - - 111 

Canst Thou Forget Me? - 112 

The World a Masquerade - - - - - - 113 

To a Young Lady - 115 

The Blue Ridge - - 116 

Our Mountain Boys - - - - - - - 117 

To Miss G. Y 118 

The Boy in the Wood 120 

The Pirate _ 123 

To Ianthe 132 

To Agnes 134 

To a Jilt 136 

The Parting Bride 138 

A Passing Glance - 140 

To Miss Annie ***** 142 



6 CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Spartan Mother - - - - - - - 144 

To Inez 144 

The Ideal - 146 

To a Flirt 147 

To a Lady who Boasted op having a Cold Heart - 149 

Early Love 152 

To Gertrude 156 

I Live Within the Past Alone 157 

The Spirit Land 159 

To Jenny 161 

Ten Years Ago 162 

The Orphan Boy 163 

On, if There Were no Sorrows Here ! - - 165 

Epitaph on Captain Mountjoy 166 

He did not say he Loved, Mamma .... 167 

Lines — Sir Walter Scott 168 

Byron on the Sea Shore, at Eighteen - - - 169 

Valentine's Bust of Humboldt 171 

Lines — To Professor Hilderbrand's Class - - 173 

A Tribute to the Memory of Richard H. Foote, Jr. - 175 

Lines on A. R. Coleman - - - - - 177 

The Heavenly Portion 178 

Mary at the Cross 180 

The Raising of Lazarus 182 

The Woman of Samaria - 185 

Tin: Dying Thief - 187 

Religion 189 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

In Memoriam 190 

The Sea of Time - 192 

Singing of the Miserere in the Pope's Sistine Chapel, 

at Rome 193 

The Deserted Camp - - 196 

We Have Not Fallen 199 

Morning and Night 200 

There is a Shadow on My Heart 201 

Give me Music - - 203 

On Adversity - 204 

Invitation to the Departed 20? 

Hannibal on the Alps 209 

Midnight Musings • - - 211 

The Last Sigh of the Moor 213 

Alas! it is not Always Gay 215 

Threnodoe - 216 

There never yet was Stormy Cloud - - - 218 

Stanzas 218 

En Solitaire - 220 

Loneliness - 221 

Free Translation of the Thirtieth Ode of Horace - 223 



J&ttimtttj* 



THE stream is calmest when it nears the goal 
Where sleeps the ocean in tranquillity ; 
And songs of birds come sweetest o'er the soul 
And flowers bloom softest when Day's glories flee. 

Morning is lovely ! but 'tis sweeter far 
When Eve o'er nature spreads her mantle gray. 

When from the deep cerulean depths her star 
Beams on our vision with its calming ray. 

Day is for labor ; but Eve bringeth rest, 

And o'er the earth her tranquil twilight throws ; 

The bird returns in gladness to her nest. 
The beast o'er-wearied sinks into repose. 

And man, that toiled beneath the noontide heat, 
Welcomes the hour that gives a blest release; 

And oh, how grateful is calm Evening sweet, 
Whose gentle mandate bids his labors cease ! 

Lord, when on earth we close our failing eyes, 
Oh, may we sink in calmness to the grave, 

As fades the Evening in clear western skies, 
Or dies in beauty o'er the placid wave ! 



10 THE POETICAL WORKS OP 



Hip §hnt P«$ fikfy 

THE clear blue sky! the clear blue sky! 
How grandly bends its arch on high ! 
There is no temple man hath made 
So glorious as yon crystal sky. 

Its deep blue vault, with stars begemmed, 
It spreads o'er distant seas and lands, 

A grand cathedral, whose vast dome 
Was never made by mortal hands ! 

High o'er the eagle's loftiest flight, 

And where the wandering meteors stray ; 

The moon its silvery lamp by night, 
The sun its golden lamp by day. 

]So gaudy tinsel hues are there 
To mar its simple, grand design ; 

But Heaven's serene, transparent blue, 
The fresco of the Hand divine. 

And then, so pure its azure depths, 
Its clear, ethereal realms of air, 

'Twould scarce amaze us to behold 
Earth's guardian angels floating there. 



James jderuyter black well. 11 

The clear blue sky ! the clear blue sky ! 

A boundless ocean, through whose tide, 
Unfearing shore or sunken rock, 

Not ships alone, but worlds may ride ! 

Oft on the surging tempest sea 

Huge icebergs 'gainst each other beat, 

And navies clash ; but through the sky 
Yast systems roll and never meet. 

The clear blue sky ! the clear blue sky ! 

It spreads around the earth's great ball, 
The mirror of God's purity, 

And like his love, encircling all. 

And oh, the sweet, consoling thought, 
That souls of good men, when they die, 

Shall wing their way to realms of bliss, 
Eternal in yon clear blue sky ! 



EESTOEE those stars ! Oh, let them shine 
Upon our flag again ; 
And let them, as in days gone by, 
Gleam o'er the land and main ! 



12 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



We want no mutilated flag, 
Whose dismal blanks may tell 

That orbs which once shone brightly there 
Have bade its folds farewell. 

No ! they shall not be stricken from 

That constellation bright, 
And, like the wanderiug Pleiad's fires, 

Be quenched in endless night. 

No ! they shall ever glitter where 

That meteor flag's unfurled, 
And be with other kindred stars 

The hope stars of the world. 

We'll set them in their place again 

Of glory and renown ; 
Like those that circle round the pole, 

They never shall go down. 

Columbia, wipe away thy tears : 

Thy flag shall be restored, 
With not a single stripe erased, 

Nor single star obscured. 

And it shall float in ample folds, 
And flaunt the breeze in pride, 

Where'er thy victor legions tread, 
Or oak ribbed navies ride. 



JAMES DEE UTTER BLACK WELL. 13 

And every heart shall leap with joy 

To see that flag once more 
Triumphant wave o'er land and sea, 

As it hath waved of yore. 



MY days are passing as a stream, 
That swiftly glides to ocean's wave; 
And life's illusive, feverish dream 
Must soon be ended in the grave. 

The dearest friends I e'er have known 
Mine eyes of flesh shall see no more 5 

I am as one that's left alone — 
To linger on some desert shore. 

And, oh ! my spirit soon, like theirs, 
Must sail o'er that unmeasur'd sea, 

Whose mildest aspect ever wears 
An awful, dread solemnity. 

But thou, O God ! canst calm the deep, 
And waft my bark in safety o'er ; 

At thy command the waves will sleep, 
As Galilee's dark wave of yore. 



14 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Ob, let thy breath but fill the sail, 

Soon will subside Death's wild alarms, 

The storm become a prosperous gale, 
To waft me to a Saviour's arms ! 

Iii thee alone I place my trust, 
My only hope is in thy power. 

Oh, raise my spirits from the dust. 
And save me in Death's awful hour ! 



RBMEMBEANCB hath a power sublime 
To clothe the past in heavenly light, 
Until each scene of by- gone time 

Grows 'neath its touch divinely bright. 

Like the optician's magic glass, 

It magnifies the good we've known ; 

While o'er the ill, which there might pass, 
Oblivion's veiling cloud is thrown. 

When he who roams some mountain land 
Throws back his retrospective view, 

He only sees the peaks that stand 
By sunlight robed in heavenly blue— 



JAMES DER UTTER BLACK WELL. 15 

Each narrow glen, each steep ravine, 
Once to his awe-struck gaze revealed, 

By distance hid, no more are seen, 
In deepening shadows dark concealed. 

'Tis thus in life, by Memory's power 

Each joy upon the soul's imprest, 
While o'er each dark and gloomy hour 

Lethean shades in mercy rest. 



)Idfp+ 



ECHO, echo, lovely echo, 
Oh, how sweet the strain, 
Upon the hushed and listening air, 
Comes floating back again ! 

Echo, echo, softened echo, 
Murmuring faint and low, 

Such mellowed music as we hear 
When chiming waters flow. 

Echo, echo, dying echo, 

Failing as the breeze, 
When scarce a zephyr's wing is heard 

To flutter through the trees, 



16 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Echo, echo, far off echo, 

Like some distant star, 
Whose sweet and heaven-born silvery beams 

Are Quivering from afar. 

Echo, echo, saddened echo, 

Sighing in the air 
Like voice of some departing joy, 

Which fondly lingered there. 

Echo, echo, answering echo, 

As if seraph's tongue 
Were hymning some celestial strain 

Responsive as we sung. 



WHY should we roam in foreign clime ? 
For classic Greece or Rome 
Disclose not mountains more sublime 
Than we behold at home. 

Our sparkling rivers flow as bright 

As any waters there ; 
Our suns dispense as pure a light 

As gilds their landscapes fair, 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 17 

Fair flow'rets bloom along our fields, 

Perfuming every gale, 
Whose breath as rich a fragrance yields 

As those of Teinpe's vale. 

Though Philomela sings not here 

Her sweet nocturnal tune. 
Our mockingbird pours forth as clear 

Its warblings to the moon. 

'Tis true no time discolored fane, 

Nor mouldering castle gray, 
Doth on its moss clad stone retain 

The record of decay; 

For all is new — the forests stand 

In their primeval green, 
As fresh as when from God's own hand 

They first adorned the scene. 

But, oh ! who would not rather gaze 

On Youth with promise bright, 
Than look on Age's last sad days 

Preceding Death's dark night ? 



18 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



%k ®ro$t mm m l>^m{t^$ Yafy 

?nnlS quiet now in Tempe's vale, 
JL The muse's harp-strings thrill no more ; 
No graces woo the passing gale, 
And there the choral dance is o'er. 

Apollo's lyre is now unstrung, 

Its trembling chords have ceased to quiver ; 
Eesponsive as the day-god sung, 

The day-god's song is hushed forever. 

Still doth Olympus lift on high 

Through those clear skies its snow-clad brow ; 
But there no god ye may descry, — 

Its peak is all deserted now. 

The dreaded bolt hath left the hand 
Of him whose thunders rolled above ; 

And now the dwellers in the land 
Bow to another god than Jove. 

But, oh ! the memories of the past 

Are clinging round each bare rock yet, 

And there shall linger till the last 
Revolving sun shall rise and set, 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 19 

For geuius there hath thrown around 

Each scene a glory all its own, 
And there in memory e'er shall sound 

The music of its lyre's sweet tone. 

It mingles with each running stream, 
And murmurs in the breeze's sigh; 

And soft as music of a dream, 
Its echoes float eternal by. 



OH, how unhappy is this world of ours! 
All things of beauty must here soon decay- 
The verdure of the fields, the summer's flowers, 
Before the wintry storms will pass away. 

The orient glories of the morning's beam, 
The changing shadows of the evening sky, 

The radiant arch whose hues of heaven seem, 
Must all in darkness soon together lie. 

At morn the father looks upon his son — 
He is so young, so beautiful and brave ! 

Lo, in despair, before the day is done, 

He weeps in anguish o'er his closing grave ! 



20 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

The mother gazes on her daughter's bloom 
With mingled glance of fondness and of pride ; 

A few short hours the all-engulfing tomb 
In its damp vault the perished flower will hide. 

We dwell, niethinks, upon the verdured steep, 
Beneath which fires volcanic raging glow ; 

We rest in calmness till our midnight sleep 
Is broken by the burning lava's flow. 

We dwell, methinks, upon some smiling plain 
Where, all unheralded, the earthquakes come; 

We feast, we marry, and we gather gain — 
One mighty surge and darkuess is our home. 

Oh, God of Mercy ! is this all our fate ? 

The morn of gladness closed by night of gloom ; 
Our prized existence were a thing to hate 

Were there no light and life beyond the tomb ! 



" QJWEET sister, it is summer time; 
O I hear the murmuring bee, 
And birds returned from southern clime — 
The flowers I cannot see, 






JAMES DERUYTEB BLACK WELL. 21 

" Oh, place me gently, sister dear, 
Where I sat long ago ; 
Near by the stream, that I may hear 
Its chiming waters flow. 

U I cannot see the streamlet bright, 
Nor yet its fringing flowers ; 
For oh, a cloud upon my sight 
Dark as the deep night lowers ! 

il But yet that is a pleasant place 

By that sweet murmuring stream ; 
And passing years may not efface 
That spot from Memory's dream. 

" For there I sat 'neath summer skies 
Ere yet this darkness fell 
In deepening shadows on mine eyes, 
There throughout life to dwell. 

The world is dark — how dark to me, 

With deep gloom overcast — 
The only light which now I see 

Is beaming from the past. 

" Then place me, sister, by that stream 
Where sweet the wild flowers grow, 
That I may there in memory dream 
Of years long, long ago." 



22 THE POETICAL WOtiKS OP 



jut£ Jnmn% Jbrny. 



TTTB are passing away as a bright summer day, 
VV When the hours of gladness fly swift as the 
wind; 

As a dream of the night we are passing away, 
And leaving the world and its sorrows behind. 

From the schemes of ambition, the hoardings of 
wealth, 
From the gay dream of pleasure we soon will be 
gone, 
And the cheek now suffused with the bright glow 
of health 
Shall tell by its pallor the spirit hath flown. 

We are fading away as the flower of the plain ; 

We are dying away as the bird's failing song ; 
We are passing away as the stream to the main, 

Where its wave glides in silence and beauty along. 

We are passing away as the summer cloud flies, 
O'er the green fields outspread in their beauty 
below ; 

We are wilting away as the autumn leaf dies, 
When cold on its bosom the wintry winds blow. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 23 



We are passing away to the deep, narrow grave. 
And the clods of the valley shall cover our bed. 

Where the night wind shall sigh, and the willow 
shall wave 
Its low drooping boughs o'er the home of the dead. 

We are passing away to a w T orld all unknown; 
To the dim land of dreams which no mortal may 
know — 
Where death's gloomy shadows in darkness are 
thrown 
O'er the pathway, concealing its weal and its woe. 

Yea ; the hour is coming when the heavens, in flame, 
Shall eclipse by their splendor the brightness of 
day; 
When the end of all things the last trump shall 
proclaim, 
And peal the loud dirge of their passing away. 



RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MADAME POZZONI. 

FOEGET not the dead, though lowly they lie, 
Far down in the deep, gloomy grave; 
But sad be the tone and moist be the eye, 
When we speak of the earth-shrouded brave ! 



24 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

They died in their youth. They have drank of the 
cup, 

So bitter for young hearts to drain — 
They have perished as flowers for us, giving up 

Their lives on the blood drinking plain. 

Forget not the dead ! Oh, remember them e'er ! 

For the records of time may not tell 
Of spirits more noble, more gallant, sincere, 

Than those 'neath our banners who fell. 

Forget not the dead, for their temples entwine 
Bright garlands not destined to fade ! 

Oh ! soft fall the dews, and let morning enshrine 
With its light, where the heroes are laid. 



%\t ittbij nnb fitter Wjxijik 

OH, could we see the human heart, 
What mysteries were there — 
The secret grief, the inward smart, 
Oft 'neath a visage fair ! 

Alas! how little do we know 

E'en of our dearest friends; 
? Tis only what they choose to show, 

And there our knowledge ends. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 25 

There is a story all untold, 

A history unread, 
In wrapped in Secrecy's dark fold, 

As wraps the shroud the dead. 

Oh, were that inner world revealed, 

Those secret realms of thought, 
E'en from our dearest friends concealed, 

What changes would be wrought ! 

'Twould be as though the vasty deep 

Should to the gaze disclose 
The thousand wondrous things that sleep 

Beneath its calm repose. 

The hearts thus opened to our ken 

Would not be what they seem — 
A Avorld would be discovered then 

Of which we little dream. 



26 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



i,mnr 9 . 



""VT~0 line is lost on memory's page, 
-L-N Although there seem to be 
Things there outworn by lapse of age 
Of which no trace we see. 

They are not dead, but sleeping there, 

Those scenes of other days. 
Some spring is touched — they reappear 

Life like before the gaze. 

The memory of things once known 

Eetouched their hues display ; 
And though long lingering years have flown, 

They seem of yesterday. 

The lengthened line of vanished years. 

Whose shadows intervene, 
At once, like magic, disappears 

And leaves no chasm between. 

It seems there were a power sublime 

Which aids the mental eye, 
And, like the artist's tube, in time 

Will bring the distant nigh. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 27 



Hip YmtfeJpfc Jbut Jijuft* 

I SAW a dew drop on the grass, 
It glittered in tbe light, 
But soon the liquid gem had passed 
In silence from my sight. 

It passed away, that sparkling gem, 

But not in vain — I knew 
That all its lovely colors were 

Absorbed in heaven's own blue. 

And would ye seek that dew drop now ? 

No more on earth it lies, 
But glitters in the lovely arch 

That spans in light the skies. 

A cherub smiled upon ine here ; 

Its smiles no more I see 
Beneath the skies ; but bright they beam 

In immortality. 

For, like the early morning dew 
Which to my view was given, 

Those sweet, endearing smiles have been 
By angels borne to heaven. 



28 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



, 



nv+ 



THE watch fires gleam on Bappahannock's side, 
In beauty glancing o'er its mirrored tide ; 
Fringing from far with their bright ruddy gleam 
Each graceful willow weeping o'er the stream ; 
Piercing through all the woodland's depths pro- 
found, 
In mingling light and shadow o'er the ground. 
O'er many a level plain and mountain crest, ■ 
Their lengthened lines in beamy splendor rest ; 
Through valley deep, o'er swelling knoll they glow, 
Like stars reflected from the earth below. 
And many a song and jocund laugh is there, 
Breaking the stillness of the midnight air, 
Where, all regardless of the coming fight, 
The careless soldier carols to the night. 
The gallant steeds, with shrilly piercing neigh, 
Impatient wait the morning's long delay ; 
Snuff the dread battle in the breeze afar, 
And eager wait the coming shock of war. 
Now faint and low the sentry's measured tread 
Falls like some watcher's round the sleeping dead. 
The moon, pale quivering on his helmet shines, 
And " All is well !" re-echoes through the lines. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 29 

With thoughts of far off home, a manly brow 

Amidst that thronging host is clouded now ; 

And busy fancy wanders far away, 

To his loved cottage where his cherubs play, 

And weeps his consort, whom the morrow's strife 

May make, perchance, a widow of a wife. 

The beardless youth with burning breast is there, 

Unmindful of an absent mother's care. 

High in his bosom swelling thoughts arise, 

And daring flashes from his gleaming eyes. 

He hopes that future ages may unroll 

His name, recorded bright on Glory's scroll; 

And loses, thinking on the victor's wreath, 

All thought of danger and all thought of death. 

Or chance he sees the glowing torches burn, 

With light hymeneal, on his home return : 

Where maiden fair, with deeply blushing charms, 

Shall sweetly crown his high desert in arms. 

See all alone the thoughtful chieftain stand, 

With lofty brow, and looks that give command; 

But anxious still, as though an empire's fate 

Huug doubtful on the morning's stern debate. 

Xor causeless thus; for lo ! to-morrow's sun, 

Ere his diurnal journey he hath run, 

Ere yet he sinks 'mid western clouds, may see 

A land of villeins, or an empire, free ! 

Like some tall cliff', round whose majestic form 



30 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Is wreathed the darkness of the mountain storm, 
That chieftain stands ; and from his brow of ire 
Flashes at intervals his glance of fire, 
As darkly he reflects in pensive mood, 
On all the horrors of the day of blood ; 
Revolving where his standard shall be set, 
And where shall flash the glittering bayonet ; 
What fields his cavalry shall thunder o'er, 
And where the dread artillery shall roar. 
And round that chieftain many a gallant youth, 
With soul of daring, and with heart of truth, 
Attendant wait with ready steed at hand, 
To bear his mandates where he may command. 
No matter where ; so but the order given, 
Though peals the cannon loud as bolt of heaven, 
And hissing death shots all around them fly, 
Like blazing meteors through the flaming sky. 
And ? mid that brilliant multitude was one, 
With form as fair as ye may gaze upon. 
No Grecian sculptor in his dreams e'er traced 
Lines more symmetrical than those which graced 
His form divine. The Apollo Belvedere 
Alone might rival him in beauty's sphere. 
And on his face there was that look of heaven, 
By limners to the loved apostle given. 
The sun had bronzed his cheek ; but on his brow 
Rested the whiteness of the driven snow, 
While clear beneath, his mild and deep blue eye 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 31 

Beamed like the azure of the summer's sky. 
HLs flowing locks, in their rich auburn hue, 
Contrasted darkly with the eye of blue, 
And gracefully around his temples curled, 
Like morning's mists around the sleeping world. 

Indeed, he seemed unfitted for the scene; 
For in the depths of his bright eye serene, 
Far other meditations might ye read 
Than of the warrior and bis daring deed. 
His soul looked not with pleasure on the sight 
Of fellow mortals mangled in the fight. 
For him the night bird's gently trilling note 
Made music sweeter than the trumpet's throat ; 
And dearer far the bee's glad morning hum, 
Than intonation of the warlike drum. 
He loved to gaze upon fair Nature's charms, 
When undisturbed by battle's wild alarms ; 
To hear the streamlet's gentle waters flow, 
As, murmuring music, o'er the sands they go ; 
To list the feathered choirs, from every tree 
Wakening the morning with their melody; 
To look in rapture on the arching sky, 
And count the snowy clouds careering by; 
And when the tempest's frowning hour had gone, 
And sweetly on his gaze the landscape shone, 
He loved to see, on the retiring storm, 
The rainbow's bright, but evanescent form; 



32 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

In thought to wander in far distant climes 
Mid crumbling monuments of other times, 
Where skies of Italy and Hellas glow, 
In ever beaming smiles on earth below, 
And from those classic scenes, around which cling 
The memories of the past, rich tribute bring ; 
To listen how sweet Maro struck the lyre, 
And feel within his breast old Homer's fire ; 
To glow with Pindar, and with Sappho burn, 
Converse with Socrates, from Plato learn ; 
To hear the tides of eloquence, that rolled 
From lips well worthy of the name of gold ; 
Those winged words that flash like rays of light 
And chain our wonder by their magic might. 

And various, too, the scenes through which he'd 

passed. 
He'd seen the mountain in the river glassed, 
Where Alleghany, rising to the cloud, 
Eobes her bold summits in its misty shroud. 
His infant years he passed where Nature wild, 
Shed her selectest influence o'er her child. 
He ever loved to climb the mountains steep, 
Or row the light skiff o'er the river deep, 
Fearless of danger, though the angry wave 
In yawning chasms disclosed a liquid grave. 
Full well he knew the falcon's airy rest, 
And where the peaceful halcyon built her nest. 



JAMES DEBUYTER BLACK WELL. 33 

He oft beheld the snowy sea gull sail 
Against the fury of the northern gale. 
There, where the Indian smote the antlered deer, 
Or pierced the leaping salmon with his spear, 
He spent whole days in that luxurious dream 
That coarser souls of earth a madness deem. 
And when the wintry blast, careering by, 
Swept the dark forests with its surging sigh,* 
Heard in the storm that whistled o'er his head, 
The sighing spirits of the moaning dead. 

He, too, had dwelt upon the level plain, 
Where naught obscured the vision's wide domain ; 
Midst peaceful scenes where the prolific soil, 
With bursting barns repaid the tiller's toil, 
And where the mockingbird, with varied lay, 
Woke him each morning at the break of day. 
There often at the gentle evening's close, 
When up the hill the streamlet's murmur rose, 
He sat and gazed on heaven's unclouded sea, 
With thoughts that wandered through eternity; 
Traced there each rolling planet's bright career, 
And tracked the wandering comet through the 

sphere ; 
And when the lamp its glimmering light had shed 
Upon the volumes which enshrined the dead, 
Oft at the midnight hour he'd silent pore 
Upon the lettered page of ancient lore ; 



34 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Bead what was there of worth in arts and laws, 
Heard the enchanted forum's wild applause 
When old Demosthenes' or Tally's ire, 
Smote on the listening ear with words of fire; 
The truths sublime of the Athenian sage, 
Like beacons gleaming o'er a darkened age. 
Old Cato's stoic wisdom, stern and high, 
Was there presented to his searching eye; 
And great Aurelian, who Eome's sceptre swayed, 
His thoughtful treasures to his mind conveyed. 

Nor saw he earth alone. The sacred scroll 

Unclosed its rich re veal merits to his soul. 

Beyond the finite bounds of time and space, 

He saw, by faith, the angels' dwelling place, 

That glorious world of light where seraphs shone 

In heavenly radiance round the eternal throne ; 

And oft in ecstasy, with ravished ears, 

Heard strains more sweet than music of the spheres. 

And he had loved, with pure ethereal love, 

That holy name the angels fear above. 

But words are vain ; for language may not tell 

The glory of those charms he loved so well. 

Go gaze upon the loveliest things of earth — 

The Alpine flower that 'mid the snows has birth ; 

Go look upon the lily of the vale, 

Opening its beauties to the morning gale. 

Nor lily pure nor Sharon's rose can bless 



JAMES LERUYTER BLACK WELL. 35 

Our dazzled vision with such loveliness. 
The eye of the gazelle, the stars of night, 
The dawn of morning, the Aurora's light, 
Are things of nothing when ye would compare 
Their beauties with the glories clustering there. 
She seemed a true Anadyomene 
Rising in beauty from the surging sea; 
In form and visage so divinely fair 
She only wanted wings to rise in air. 
Nor outward beauty there alone you'd find ; 
The inner glances of her heart and mind 
In happy unison held equal sway, 
Like mingled heat and light of solar ray. 
And as some beauteous alabaster vase 
Grows yet more lovely from the inward blaze, 
So the charmed gazer saw new beauties rise, 
As flashed her kindling soul from her love beaming- 
eyes. 

And they had loved each other from their youth ; 
Even childhood's years had heard their vows of 

truth. 
And love, unlessened by Time's measured length, 
Grew with their growth and strengthened with their 

strength. 
Full oft together they have wandered through 
The tangled brake wherein the wild flower grew ; 
Roamed through the orchard, full of youthful glee, 



36 the poetical works of 

And plucked the blossoms of the apple tree. 

Their footsteps often at the day's sweet dawn 

Had brushed the early dew drops from the lawn ; 

And often in the noontide's sultry hours 

They ranged the forest, gathering woodland flowers; 

And oft at evening's close they lingered near 

The pebbly margin of the river clear, 

And o'er the placid water's winding way 

Marked the last rose tints of the dying day. 

And when the evening from the depths of air, 

Disclosed in beauty all her jewels rare, 

From heavenly orbs, that glowed in light afar, 

He'd turn to her, his soul's bright morning star ! 

But vanished now are all those happy hours, 
Those w 7 alks mid rural scenes and sylvan bowers ! 
The lark's shrill matin and the redbird's song 
No more in trilling lays their notes prolong; 
But clarion, pealing high, and rolling drum, 
Tell where in wrath the mustering squadrons come ! 
No bright winged oriole glances through the trees, 
But flags of battle flaunt in every breeze ! 
And blood red pennons floating far behind, 
Stream forth like meteors to the troubled wind ! 
And that soft eye, which ever loved to look 
On tranquil landscapes, where the shepherd's crook, 
Enwreathed with Spring's bright flowers, was only 
seen 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 37 

Ruling the snowy flocks that flecked the green, 

By sad vicissitude is doomed to dwell 

On scenes of carnage making earth a hell ! 

And she, to whom his youthful soul had given 

Its fondest love beneath the God of heaven, 

Sits in her lonely home far, far away, 

And mournful sighs aud sadly weeps the day ! 

# * # * # # 

The battle's o'er, and the extended plain 

Is covered thick with corpses of the slain. 

In every form of ghastly death they lie, 

With face upturned toward the pitying sky. 

The thirsty earth hath drunk far different showers 

Than those which gemmed the vernal field with 

flowers ; 
And o'er the plain for many a rood, I ween, 
The dye of crimson hath dispelled the green. 
And faint and low comes the expiring sigh 
The dying breathe out in their agony, 
Which, sinking by degrees, is heard no more ; 
The fainting spirit flits, and all of earth is o'er. 



"A glorious victory ! " On every hand 
The loud Te Deums peal throughout the land ! 
" A glorious victory hath this day been won ! " 
Is borne by shouting myriads to the sun. 



38 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

" A glorious victory'' — go ask the grave, 

Closing in darkness o'er the young and brave ! 

" A glorious victory" — hear that widow's shriek! 

And mark the whiteness on yon maiden's cheek I 

See yonder aged sire, with woe undone, 

Like Judah's monarch, calling for his son ! 

And hear on every breeze in anguish borne 

All comfortless some stricken Rachel mourn ! 

Away, away, the warrior's gilded fame, 

And loud hosanna, pealing high his name ! 

I covet not his fame, nor seek the bliss 

He feels as victor on a field like this ! 

Lo ! every leaf upon his laurel wreath, 

Is crimsoned with a bloody hue beneath ; 

And every wind that floats his flag in air, 

Is wafting to some distant home, despair ! 

And ye who build your pride on others' pain, 

Like him of old who fixed Diana's fame, 

In mercy look upon this slaughtered host, 

And learn from thence what glorious victories cost ! 

Oh that my head were waters of the deep, 
Mine eyes a fount of tears, that I might weep 
By day and night for all my people slain, 
Whose bones lie bleaching on the bloody plain ! 
And thou, oh man of God, where'er thou art, 
That bear'st thy Saviour's image on thy heart, 
With bitter agony and flowing tears, 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 39 

Pour tliy petitions into Mercy's ears, 
That God in pity would this curse remove 
Far from our beauteous land and those we love. 
My curse upon the wretch, whoe'er he be, 
Where'er he wander by the land or sea, 
Of eye unpitying and of stony heart, 
Who secret plots with diabolic art 
To wrest the precious boon of peace away, 
And teach his fellow man to wound and slay; 
May sun of heaven refuse to him its light, 
His spring be turned to winter, noon to night; 
The asp's rank venom be his only food ; 
The earth her waters change for him to blood ; 
May scorpions in his breast forever sting, 
And death be wafted on the gales of spring. 
And when his carcass in the earth shall rot, 
Do thou, O God of heaven ! forgive him not ; 
But when his spirit bids the world farewell, 
May it be plunged into the depths of hell, 
Where through eternity the flames shall climb 
Like writhing serpents round each tortured limb! 

But vain such mournful themes. Back to my tale: 

In that fell hour when sorrow filled the gale 

On that dread day of woe and agony, 

Our youthful hero, where, oh ! where was he ? 

Where the coarse canvas intercepts the day, 

On the rough stretcher, pale in death he lay, 



40 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Alone midst strangers ; and no mother now 
Wipes the cold death damp from his clammy brow ; 
No sister's soothing hand in love is there, 
Smoothing with gentleness his matted hair. 
Attendants rude, unpitying of his woe, 
With careless footsteps hasten to and fro; 
And there are none within the stream to dip 
The porous sponge to soothe his burning lip ; 
And if he ask, in accents weak and faint, 
They turn an adder's ear to his complaint ; 
And if a passing glance on him be thrown, 
'Tis cold as moonlight in an arctic zone ; 
And ever and anon, with fearful start, 
The flowing life tide gushes from his heart. 
'Twill soon be o'er, and ere the evening shed 
Its farewell ray, he'll slumber with the dead. 

# * # # # # 

Where yonder mountain rears its head serene, 

And reigns in grandeur o'er the lovely scene, 

A lordly structure stands ; whose columns rise 

In graceful majesty to greet our eyes. 

There all is fair without. But oh, within, 

What scenes of madness, misery and sin ! 

For there, with heart on fire and throbbing brain 

The raving maniac struggles with his chain. 

Some float in fancy on the rainbow's light, 

Some scale on eagles' wings the mountain's height 



JAMES DEBUYTEE BLACK WELL. 41 

Some roam the seas with phantom sails unfurled ; 
Some reign as monarch s o'er a spectral world ; 
Some, draped in mourning, yield them to despair; 
For every form of madness centres there! 
But look; in yon green vista's opening light, 
What heavenly apparition meets the sight ! 
Is it a being of celestial birth ? 
Some angel visitant that walks the earth? 
For sure such holy beauty earth ne'er gave; 
The land of light and love beyond the grave, 
Where seraphs brighten round the eternal throne, 
Alone can claim such being for its own. 
Ah, yes ; 'tis she! for in that hueless face 
The former lineaments of love I trace, 
That smiled in all the glow of youthful pride 
When erst she wandered by that lost one's side ! 
Ah, yes ; 'tis she ! but now of reason reft — 
The jewel's gone, the casket lone is left ! 
With that great grief beyond her heart's control 
The light of reason faded from her soul. 
And still her bridal robe she weareth now, 
And bridal wreaths are twining round her brow ; 
And though long years her plighted lover roam, 
Her fancy whispers that he yet will come ! 
# # # # # # 

He does not come ! Oh, why doth he delay ? 
The hour is come, and yet he is away. 



42 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

The marriage feast is spread, the bridal wreath is 

wove. 
Why stays he now away? why lingers yet my love? 

Unhappy maiden ! Yes ; he yet shall come, 
But not on earth ! There is a better home, 
Where, happier far than in this world of woe, 
Ye shall no parting and no sorrow know ! 

Such scenes have daily happened on our shore. 
My tale is ended, and my song is o ? er. 



THE unknown grave ! we pass it by ; 
We scarcely wish to know, 
Or breathe the tribute of a sigh 
To him who sleeps below. 

Unheeded here the flowerets grow, 

To deck his last long sleep ; 
Unmarked heaven's sweetest tear drops flow 

Where men refuse to weep. 

Unknown ! yet from beneath this sod 

Our careless footsteps tread, 
Back to the bosom of its God 

A hero's soul hath fled. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 43 

He fell unheeded as the leaf 

When Autumn's blasts have blown ; 

His epitaph, alas, how brief! 
The simple Avord, " Unknown." 

Stop, traveller; thy step is on 

A consecrated grave, 
Where rests in honor, though unknown, 

The ashes of the brave. 

And God, who marks the hero's dust 

From heaven's eternal throne, 
Will send his angel bands in trust 

To guard that grave unknown. 



WHAT dost thou here, thou gentle boy % 
It is no place for thee 
Where, nerved with purpose to destroy, 
War's red right arm we see. 

Thy hand was formed to string the lyre, 

Not grasp the bloody brand ; 
Nor point the carbine's deadly fire 

At some stern chief's command. 



44 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



Thine eyes are like the heaven's deep blue 
When summer skies have smiled ; 

Not made to look upon the view 
Of War's dread havoc wild. 

And far more fit it were for thee 

To sing in lady's bower. 
Than wave War's blood red signal free 

Where clouds of battle lower. 

What dost thou where Destruction rides 

Upon the cannon's breath ? 
War hath enough of prey besides — 

Thou art too young for death. 

Home ! home ! unto thy mother's arms, 

And cheer her closing day; 
To older breasts leave War's alarms — 

Oh, bright eyed boy, away ! 

Ah, never — for the death shot came 
Careering on the blast, 

Urged by impetuous wings of flame- 
That moment was his last ! 

Upon the plain he lieth low, 

Yet lovely in his rest ; 
E'en as a wreath of April's snow 

On some sweet flow'ret's breast. 



JAMES DERUTTER BLACKWELL. 45 



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LINES SUGGESTED BY SEEING A PICTURE OF BONAl'ARTK ON THE 
SHORE OF ST. HELENA. 

"Anna virumque cano. — Virgil" • 
I. 

THE meteor glare of war has tied, 
And hashed the cannon's deafening roar; 
The soldier on his heath clad bed. 
Now sleeps and dreams of strife no more. 

Calm is the azure vault of heaven, 
There's not a breath the sail to fill ; 

No rippling wave to shore is driven ; 
Earth, air and ocean, all are still. 

Gently o'er the distant wave 

Sinks the setting sun to rest ; 
And deep in ocean seeks to leave 

The splendors of his fiery crest. 

ii. 
Who is it stands on yonder steep 
Which hangs impending o'er the deep? 
That cliff which hath for ages stood 
A rampart 'gainst the stormy flood, 
The foaming billows kept at bay, 
And back on ocean dashed his spray, 



46 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

The lightning of his eagle eye, 

His look, commanding, stern and high, 

And yet anconquered, all proclaim 

To him belongs no common name. 

As the sturdy mountain oak, 

When blasted by the lightning's stroke, 

Though from it all its boughs are riven, 

Still lifts its blackened trunk to heaven, 

And seems as if it dared defy 

The terrors of the stormy sky, 

So stands that fallen chieftain now, 

Defiance gathering on his brow ; 

Around him thick misfortunes fall, 

And yet he calmly braves them all. 

Though his armies are slain and his banners are 

taken, 
And his hopes are all ruined, his soul is un- 
shaken. 

in. 
And his had been a fearful life, 
His days had passed midst scenes of strife ; 
For him the war cloud's circling wreath, 
The deep mouthed cannon ringing death, 
And crimsoned earth with life blood stained, 
No form of terror now retained ; 

They were familiar grown. 
Unmoved he looked upon the slain 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 47 



That strewed Cairo's sun scorched plain ; 
And brightly o'er the Bussian snow, 
With man and nature both his foe, 

His mighty watch fires shone. 
On Alpine heights his eye surveyed 
The bannered host for war arrayed ; 
And like the lightning from the cloud, 
When volleying thunder peals aloud, 
His onward progress marked by death, 
He rushed upon the plain beneath. 
O'er prostrate kings he proudly trod, 
And deemed himself almost a god. 

IV. 

But fallen from his lofty state, 

And guarded on that rock bound coast, 
He meets the prisoner's gloomy fate, 

His empire crushed, his freedom lost! 

As the mountain bird aspires 

On nervous wing to mount the sky, 

But smote by heaven's avenging fires, 
Lies bleeding on the earth to die ; 

So stands the chief on that wild shore, 
With restless glance o'er ocean thrown ; 

His bright career of conquest o'er, 
Far from that world he called his own. 

For God hath brought the proud one low, 

And taught the chief himself to know. 



±8 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



I SEE the fallen Marius sit 
Upon that crumbling stone, 
And dark tlie gathering shadows flit 
O'er that old man alone. 

But darker still the shadows fall 

Upon that old man's brow, 
As if they were a funeral pall 

That wrapped his spirit now. 

But still beneath the deep'ning cloud 

His eye unconquered gleams, 
As from the storm's inclosing shroud 

The wrathful lightning streams. 

Though fallen from his high estate, 

And compassed round with ill, 
That flashing eye, with pride elate, 

Proclaims the Eoman still. 

And is it that it sees the light 

With glance prophetic plain, 
Which shows him that his conquering might 

Must enter Rome again? 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 49 

I know not if the truth be so, 

But yet that glance doth tell 
Of a fierce heart unbent by woe, 

Erect, invincible. 

It tells that though in bloody war 

His fortune's star grew dim, 
And paled beneath a mightier star, 

It had not vanquished him. 

And though his fortunes round him lie 

In hideous ruin hurled, 
Yet with unaltered purpose high 

He braves a hostile world. 

He seemeth as some hoary oak 
Which, though its trunk be bare, 

And blasted by the lightning's stroke, 
Would still the Storm God dare. 

Or as yon ruined columns nigh 

That lift their heads sublime, 
Erect through Afric's burning sky, 

Marked, not subdued, by time. 



50 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



DEDICATED TO HON. HENRY A. WISE. 

HE who bath sealed the truth with blood, 
He hath not died in vain ; 
Thus hath it been since earth hath stood, 
And shall be yet again. 

The martyr triumphs in his death, 

And truly conquers then ; 
Words uttered by his dying breath 

Most sway the souls of men. 

The rain drops of the opening year, 

Although they fall to earth 
And in its bosom disappear, 

Give vernal flowers their birth. 

The treasures of the teeming fields, 

The fruitful autumn's dower ; 
The riches which the harvest yields, 

Spring from the buried shower. 

And, like the heaven-descended rain, 

The blood which martyrs shed, 
In its effects shall e'er remain, 

And speak when they are dead. 



JAMES DEB UTTER BLACK WELL. 51 

The vengeful fires which withering curled 

Around the shrinking frame 
Have often lit up through the world 

A never dying flame. 

And patriots with heroic mind, 

Who for their country fell. 
Have an example left behind 

Which shall on ages tell! 

Their memory, still living on, 

The nation's soul sublimes ; 
And they who fell at Marathon 

Saved Greece a hundred times ! 



THE noon of life is past with thee, 
The summer time hath flown ; 
And thou art as the yellow leaf 
When autumn's blasts have blown. 

But yet undimmed thy burning eye, 
Unbent thy rugged form ; 

And thou art as the brave old oak 
Which still defies the storm. 



52 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Oh ! warm beneath thy whitening locks 
A youthful heart still glows, 

As Hecla's quenchless fires burn on 
Beneath eternal snows. 

Thy life, old hero, was not passed 
Mid sunny bowers of ease ; 

For, like Old Ironsides, thou'st braved 
The battle and the breeze. 

And thou canst look upon that life, 

Nor blush at the review ; 
Thy heart in sunshine and in storm 

Was to Virginia true. 

Thy actions now are with the past, 
All measured, numbered, weighed ; 

Thy struggles like the conflict's clash, 
Which proved the battle blade. 

The passing clouds may dim the sun 

When skies are overcast ; 
But bright, far o'er our mountains blue, 

He sets in light at last. 

And as that sun will oft descend 

Sublime as when he rose, 
So will thy life, when near its end, 

Sink, like him, to repose, 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 53 



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ISTEUNG my lyre to sing the praise 
Of those who conquered in the fight. 
And drew the world's admiring gaze 
By valorous deeds of daring might. 

I brushed in haste each trembling string, 
And bade the strain triumphant flow; 

Alas ! the touch could only bring 
A sad, responsive note of woe. 

It seemed as if the dying groans 
Of those who in the struggle fell 

Were sighing through the saddened tones, 
And murmuring a last farewell. 

I could not hear the paeans loud — 
I only heard the shrieks of pain, 

And saw beneath the battle cloud 
The mountains of the ghastly slain. 

I could not think of victory, 

With waving wings in glory spread ; 
Before my gaze there seemed to be 

Alone the dying and the dead. 



54 THE POETICAL WORKS OP 



COMMONLY CALLED THE HAWK'S NEST. 

THERE is a rock, a towering rock, 
That lifts its form on high, 
As though its splintered sides would mock 
The Storm God of the sky. 

Amid surrounding forests deep 

That tall cliff rears its head ; 
And o'er its summit mosses creep, 

And lichens gray are spread. 

A river floweth at its feet, 

But yet so far below, 
Like murmuring brook, the ear would greet 

The rushing torrent's flow. 

'Tis there the eagle builds her nest, 
And rears her blood nursed brood, 

Where dark primeval shadows rest 
In lonely solitude. 

And oft her wild and piercing note 

Is borne upon the air, 
As if some brazen trumpet's throat 

Eang out its summons there. 



JAMES DEBUYTER BLACK WELL. 55 

The wild goat sports upon the brink 

Of that dread precipice ; 
And oft the startled deer will shrink 

Back from the deep abyss. 

It seems the Xestor of the scene, 

As its gray head sublime 
Arises midst the wood's dark green. 

All bare and bleached by time ; 

Or as some Titan's giant height, 
Who grasped at Jove's high throne, 

Had felt the thunderer's scathing might, 
And turned fore'er to stone. 

For though each vanished year and age 

Hath brushed its rugged brow, 
The tokens of the lightning's rage 

It beareth even now. 

But midst each tempest's swelling roar 

It proudly standeth yet; 
And it shall stand till time is o'er, 

And earth's last sun be set. 

Man's structures yield to wear's rude shock, 

Or slow in years decay ; 
But thou shalt stand, enduring rock, 

Till earth shall pass away ! 



56 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

And only when the silent dead 
From their long sleep shall wake, 

Shalt thou decline thy hoary head, 
And thy strong pillar shake ! 



I AM on earth alone. No human eye 
Bends on me now its looks of tenderness ; 
But unfamiliar forms are passing by. 
All heedless of my bosom's deep distress. 

There are bright glances, laughter pealing loud- 
And the sweet smiles of happiness I see 

Mantling each cheek with joy. But, oh ! a cloud, 
A dark, a gloomy cloud, frowns over me ! 

Dive down, ye griefs, into my bosom's deep ; 

Ye have no business in a world of joy ; 
There, in that charnel vault, forever sleep — 

Why should ye others' happiness annoy ? 

We hide the loathsome corpse away from sight 
In the dark chambers of the sepulchre ; 

And it is only mid the gloom of night 
The pale, foreboding spectre dare appear. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 57 

Then cease, mine eye, to drop the falling tear, 
And ye, my bosom, only inward moan, 

And let my spirit's deep despair appear 
To the all piercing eye of God alone. 



Iflp Jrdbtt jlfptEL 

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF 
MARKHAM BROOK MARSHALL. 

ABOUND him lie the gallant dead, 
E'en as they stood in life, 
When ranged upon the battle field 
They met the deadly strife. 

The pride of all our Southern land 

Are calmly sleeping near, 
Where many a cheek is pallid now 

That never paled with fear. 

But Death ne'er struck a fairer mark, 

Though mighty to destroy, 
Than when he chilled fore'er the heart 

Of that brave, noble boy. 

A broken shaft stands o'er his grave — 

It tells the mournful tale ; 
Ere manhood's strength had nerved his arm 

His cheek in death was pale. 



58 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

But, oh ! there ne'er was manlier heart 
Than throbbed within the breast 

Which here, beneath that broken shaft, 
Sleeps in its hallowed rest. 

That broken shaft ! Alas ! it speaks 

The agony of soul, 
Of ruined hopes, and broken hearts. 

That earth can ne'er make whole. 

That broken shaft ! Oh ! who can look 

Upon its rifted head, 
Nor feel the heart's deep fountains moved 

O'er the untimely dead? 

'Tis sad, e'en when the aged die ; 

But, oh ! 'tis sadder far 
When youth is stricken in its spring 

By fell disease or war. 

The one is like the ripened fruit 
When gathered in its prime ; 

The other as the blighted flower 
Cut off before its time. 

But yet our bitterness of grief 

Is mingled still with pride ; 
Though falling in life's earliest bloom, 

He for his country died ! 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 59 

And that pure marble which uplifts 

Its column to the light 
May never, though 'tis stainless, be 

Than his young fame more bright. 

And, oh ! may God bind up each heart 

Which here on earth is riven, 
Where never broken shaft may tell 

Of blighted youth — in heaven. 



OH! chieftain, lay thy sword aside; 
Thou'st done enough for fame. 
Thy mother State will look with pride 
Fore'er upon thy name. 

Lo ! Honor, in her robes of light, 

Sits on thy spotless crest, 
As pure as Alpine snow cloud white, 

Thou Bayard of the West. 

Thou didst not for the love of gain 
Unsheath thy trenchant brand, 

And war hath ceased and left no stain 
Of greed upon thy hand. 



60 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

If there's a stain of redder hue, 
To show some foe hath bled, 

The foe himself must own it true — 
'Twas all iu honor shed. 

'Twas for the cause thou deemedst right 
Thou struggledst long and well, 

And never but in open fight 
Thy pistol rang its knell. 

And through a long and bloody war 

No partisan e'er came 
With less of war's fell taint to mar 

The brightness of his fame. 

Lo ! when the passions of the day 

In lapse of years subside, 
Posterity will homage pay, 

Though now it be denied. 

The prejudices which enshroud 
Thy name shall be resigned 

To justice, and as passing cloud, 
Leave not a trace behind. 

The mists which wrap the morning sky 
From heaven will soon be gone, 

And with night's vanished shadows fly, 
And bright the sun shine on. 



JAMES DER UTTER BLACK WELL. 61 



I DO not praise thee ; thou art man 
Of few and fleeting clays ; 
And God, from whom all things began. 
Alone may claim our praise. 

But, oh ! when from thy lips there roll 

Such cataracts of fire, 
I feel the tempest in my soul — 

I tremble and admire ! 

I glorify the Lord of light, 
Who hath such treasures given 

To earthen vessels, flashing bright 
With radiant beams from heaven. 

Lo! as earth's conqueror, when he came 

Of old, was forced to bow, 
Not to the priest, but to the name 

He wore upon his brow — 

So, gifted one, this knee of mine 

I dare not bend to thee; 
But God's bright gifts, which in thee shine, 

May almost worshipped be. 



62 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



THE red cross flag has set in night, 
Its brief career is o'er ; 
And Jackson's sword, that flashed in fight, 

Shall gleam in war no more. 
His soul hath bade the world farewell, 
But long shall page of history tell 

Of each eventful day, 
When, in the light of morn displayed, 
The banner of Stonewall's brigade 

Waved in its proud array. 

And now the stranger's musing eye 

Sees on each well fought field, 
Where Jackson's men knew how to die, 

But knew not how to yield, 
The verdant grass luxuriant wave 
In freshness o'er each soldier's grave ; 

And vernal flow'rets gay, 
By Nature's hand profusely shed, 
Deck where the gallant heroes bled 

In Stonewall Jackson's way. 

Oh ! gentle be each warrior's sleep, 

And hallowed be his rest, 
Where softest dews of evening weep 

O'er every dauntless breast. 



JA3IES DEB UTTER BLACK WELL. 63 

Each sweet toned warbler carols there 
A requiem on the stilly air 

At morn and close of day ; 
Arid hoary grandsires come to tell 
Their children's sons of those that fell, 

In Stonewall Jackson's way. 



WE saw her dying as the day 
Dies on the brow of heaven, 
When gently sinks the sun to rest 
On some calm summer even. 

We saw her dying as the wave 

Dies on the pebbly shore, 
When sinks the storm upon the deep, 

And winds their rage give o'er. 

We saw her dying as the breeze 
Dies on the fevered cheek, 

When soft that arid cheek it fans 
With pinions fluttering weak. 

We saw her dying as the flower 
Dies mid the summer's heat, 

Which even with its dying breath 
Diffuses odors sweet. 



64 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

We saw her dying as the star 
Dies at the dawn of day, 

Which in the glorious flood of light 
Fades beautiful away. 

We saw her dying — dying ? No — 
Death's not the name for this ; 

It is a wafture into life, 
And heaven's eternal bliss. 

It is not death ; 'tis but a change; 

The flower we so much prize 
Is but translated, and shall bloom 

Fore'er in paradise. 

It was too pure for scenes of earth, 
And God commission gave 

Unto his angel bands to bear 
Its bloom beyond the grave. 



fit it Jxtimi 4 jSrfftflfr k T*«% 

METHINKS I see young genius stand 
Around his youthful brow; 
A light as from the better land 
Flashes in radiance now. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 65 

And there within those dreamlike eyes 

A glance there seems to be 
That pierces through yon clear blue skies 

Into eternity. 

For his the faculty divine 

To see, in colors bright, 
Sublime, unearthly visions shine, 

Unseen by others' sight. 

He hears celestial straius, which reach 

Not uninspired ears, 
Sweeter than human art may teach — 

A music of the spheres. 

There is a world, dull sons of earth, 

Where strains of music flow, 
And glories tremble into birth 

Too bright for ye to know. 

But, lo ! young genius, to thine eye 

The heavens are, as of old, 
Unclosed. And through the opening sky 

Thou may'st that world behold. 

Upon thy view heaven's glories blaze, 

Even as of old there came 
Bright chariots on the prophet's gaze, 

And horses wrapt in flame. 



66 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



THE LINES REFERRING TO THE LATE R. E. SCOTT, FROM VIRGINIA. 

AND thou, my friend in early youth, 
-£±- Whose heart was the abode of truth, 
Where every noble trait, unmixed 
With aught of ill, was firmly fixed, 
E'en as yon deep blue mountain's base 
On its eternal resting place — 
Oh ! thou wert worthy of that band, 
The glory of their native land ; 
And scarce there is a name may shine 
With purer, brighter light than thine. 
Thine was the intellect whose glance, 
More potent than e'er knightly lance, 
Smote through the boss of Error's shield 
On many a well contested field ; 
And, like the lightning of the skies, 
Which on its fire winged errand flies, 
Broke through the clouds which would enroll 
In error the bewildered soul. 
Thine was a courage greater far 
Than nerves the soldier's arm for war — 
A courage which, with flag unfurled, 
Could stand against an erring world. 



JAMES DER UTTER BLAGKWELL. 67 

For whether men might praise or blame, 
Might eulogize or curse thy name, 
Thy aims were right, thy heart was pure, 
And truth thy only cynosure. 
Upon thy grave, oh ! honored friend, 
May softest dews of eve descend; 
There brightest may the flow'rets spring, 
There sweetest notes the birdlings sing ; 
And thou, oh, sun ! at early day 
Light up his grave with brightest ray ; 
And when thou sinkest in the west, 
Smile sweetly on his hallowed rest. 
And, oil ! forgive, majestic shade, 
The zeal presumptuous which hath laid 
This rustic garland on thy tomb 
To wither midst the vernal bloom, 
Which each returning spring shall strew 
Above the sacred trust below. 
But, oh ! could verse flow forth in zeal 
Commensurate with what I feel, 
In sweet, yet melancholy song 
I would the solemn dirge prolong, 
Till they who listened to the strain 
Should deem old Bion lived again. 



68 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



Wm*#t + 



I SAW a youthful stranger stand, 
A legate from above, 
As one of the seraphic band 
Sent on a work of love. 

For love within his glances shone, 
Where'er his eye might rest, 

Like to the well beloved John, 
Who leaned on Jesus' breast. 

Upon his face there was the glow 
Of heaven's own radiance shed ; 

His gentle voice was soft and low, 
As if an angel plead. 

Sweet as the wind harp's dying strain 

It fell on guilt's despair; 
Eeviving as the summer's rain, — 

For Mercy whispered there. 

Alas ! too short on earth his stay ; 

But why should we repine V 
That spirit bright hath winged its way 

To where the seraphs shine. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 69 

He was a heavenly messenger 

That for a moment burned 
In beauty through our darkest sphere, 

And then to heaven returned. 

For heaven's own mark his brow had sealed 

While here on earth he trod, 
And now the soul of Summerfleld 

Is happy with his God. 

He wiped the tears from weeping eyes 

Of thousands sore distrest, 
And thousands shall hereafter rise 

And call his memory blest. 

He needs no monumental stone 

To bear through time his fame ; 
The blessings of mankind alone 

Shall consecrate his name. 

He hath achieved no warrior's fame 
Where blood stained banners wave, 

For he, like his Redeemer, came 
To succor and to save. 

And when the strifes of earth are o'er, 

And war's last flag is furled, 
His glory will but shine the more 

In the eternal world. 



70 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

And midst the thousand stars that shine 

In glory and in light, 
Around the radiant throne divine 

There's uone than his more bright. 



f trip H(f$H m ®& $*$♦ 

HE was not clothed in panoply ) 
No sword flashed in his hand ; 
Yet there the form ye might descry 
Of one horn to command. 

He seemed like some old patriarch blest ; 

His eye was meek and mild, 
As if there ruled within bis breast 

The spirit of a child. 

But yet there was a magic spell 
Within that softened glance, 

That more the hearts of men could quell 
Than warrior's sword or lance. 

It was the secret, silent charm 

That goodness will impart, 
The hostile purpose to disarm, 

And sway the human heart. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACEWELL. 71 

It was not the tornado's power, 

Which, with awakened wrath, 
Pours forth its wild, destructive shower, 

On all within its path. 

No ; 'twas as April's vernal sun, 

Which melts the wintry snow ; 
Which smiles the frozen stream upon, 

And bids its waters flow. 

There is a power exceeding far 

The chief's, who leaves behind 
A name renowned for deeds of war ; 

'Tis his who rules the mind. 

Each rising race of living men 

Shall own him for their lord, 
And reverent bow. And thus the pen 

Is mightier than the sword. 

The mightiest things oft stillest are ; 

Effects the greatest found 
Are often as that temple fair 

Which rose without a sound ! # 



* The temple of Solomon went up, we are told, without the sound of the 
hammer, tbe materials having been fitted to their places beforehand. 



72 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Deep rivers flow with noiseless course ; 

The storm, which loudly reigns, 
Less potent is than that still force 

Which wandering worlds restrains ! 

Thus not as wasting tempests come, 

Nor a devouring flame ; 
Not with the roll of warlike drum, 

On earth that old man came. 

He came not with loud trumpet peal, 
Nor streaming flag unfurled ; 

But yet his heaven enkindled zeal 
Hath changed an erring world. 



DEE AM on, thou man of God, dream on ! 
For in thy living tomb 
Visions more bright than earth hath known 
Are flashing through its gloom. 

Lo ! through thy dungeon dark and deep, 

On wings seraphic borne, 
The angel hosts in glory sweep 

Like sun bright clouds at mom. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 73 



The heavens are opened to thy gaze 

E'en as to Israel's view ; 
And there, with joy and hymns of praise, 

The saints are flocking through. 

Thou seest in thy dreams by night 

The way the pilgrims trod, 
To where the first born sons of light 

Forever live with God. 

Thou seest the church triumphant now, 

In all her queenly pride ; 
And wearing on her radiant brow 

The garlands of a bride. 

Thou seest where, in heaven above, 

'Neath the eternal domes, 
They celebrate the feast of love, 

And shout, " The bridegroom comes !" 

Thou dost behold the crystal sea 
Before the throne which spreads, 

Where stand the sons of victory, 
With crowns upon their heads. 

Where, in each passing zephyr's breath, 

The palms all glorious wave, 
For conquest over boastful death, 

And victory o'er the grave. 



74 THE POETICAL WOBKS OF 

Thou seest the heavenly city there, 
Where blest immortals dwell, 

More glorious, more divinely fair, 
Than mortal tongue may tell. 

Thou seest the living sapphire throne, 
And him who thereon reigns : 

The Great Eternal Three in One, 
Whose breath all life sustains. 

Oh ! then, dream on. Lo ! to thine eyes 
Truth in each vision beams ; 

Thy dreams are all realities — 

Our waking thoughts are dreams ! 



I DO remember him — a holy, earnest man, 
Whoseheart and hopes were set on things divine, 
Who oft with faith's clear eye the heavens would 
scan, 
And in their holy light his soul enshrine. 

Eeligion's office was no trade to him ; 

He soared all sordid, narrow views above; 
With heart as warm as flaming cherubim, 

Each onerous duty was a work of love. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 75 

No narrow bigotry's exclusive zeal 

Drew round bis soul its circumscribing wall ; 

Where'er on earth men might sincerely kneel. 
His comprehensive love embraced them all. 

Heaven's spirit dwelt within him, for his breast 
Was but the living temple of his God ; 

There calmly would its holy unction rest, 
Whatever stormy scenes of life be trod. 

His was an eagle spirit, and he rose 
Above dull earth, in his aspiring flight, 

To where the blazing throne of sapphire glows 
With rays ineffable of glorious light. 

What tides of eloquence poured from his tongue, 

Like a wild cataract of living fire, 
As though old Milton's hand again had strung 

To heavenly themes his loud resounding lyre ! 

Lo ! as with Raphael's hand he would portray 
Each scene recorded in the sacred page ; 

And from their tombs, evoked in long array, 

Stood prophet, priest and king, and patriarch sage. 

And often, listening to his voice, again 

Would ancient Sinai's awful thunders roll ; 

And terror wild, like the upheaving main 

When lashed by wintry storms, swept o'er the soul. 



76 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

And oft, on fancy's wing, he'd wander o'er 
Each tranquil scene in fair JEsdraelon's vale ; 

Or linger on Tiberias' swelling shore, 
When o'er its waters sighed the gentle gale. 

The glory of the snow-crowned Lebanon 
And Carmel's excellence his fancy drew ; 

And Tabor's mount, where Christ transfigured fehone, 
And Herinon, glittering with bright morning dew. 

And when he spoke of God's redeeming grace, 

Of Calvary's rending rocks and darkened skies, 
His master touch of magic seemed to place 
" Lama sabachthani f" before our eyes. 

The dreadful terrors of the last great day 
In all their grandeur on our vision shone ; 

And heaven's own lightning in his glance would play, 
And pealed its thunders in his ringing tone. 

But he is gone from earth. And now, alas ! 

Our weeping eyes may search for him in vain ; 
And many a sad and lengthened year may pass 

Ere we may look upon his like again. 

But not all comfortless we mourn his worth, 
By death's untimely mandate from us riven ; 

For his bright lamp, extinguished here on earth, 
Shall glow forever round the throne of heaven. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 77 

lux \m J)ij+ H«^ldbttA + 

HOW lovely on the mountains are tlie feet 
Of those who bring glad tidings to our ears! 
Blest messengers of consolation sweet 

That sheds its radiance midst our doubts and fears, 
Making sweet music in each heart that hears, 
Soft as the murmurs of the cooing dove, 
Upraising high our thoughts to things above, 
To that unclouded world where all is happiness and 
love. 

They that turn many from their erring ways 

Shall shine in brightness as the morning star, 
Dispensing at the blushing dawn its rays 
Through the ethereal blue of heaven afar, 
Sweet herald of Aurora's blazing car ! 
Lo ! wreaths of amaranth shall e'er entwine 
Their brows as victors, and shall ever shine 
With beams ineffable of glorious light divine. 

Such as of old w r as the undaunted Saul, 

The mighty herald to the gentile world 
Of pardon and of peace, who bore to all 
Redeeming grace upon his flag unfurled ; 
Or he who later heaven's dread thunders hurled 
On hardened sin neglectful of the call, 
Yet wooed rebellious man God's wrath to flee — 
Such as Whitfield was, as Murkland yet may be. 



78 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



h Ytrjttmu 



VIRGINIA, thou hast mines of gold 
Beneath thy sacred soil ; 
And priceless treasures there unfold 
Themselves to pay our toil. 

But, oh ! a greater wealth is thine 

Than ever yet was found 
By those who delve the darkened mine 

In gloomy depths profound. 

Thou hast a treasure in thy sons 

Of price exceediug great 
Those glorious and immortal ones 

That light as stars their State. 

They are a crown which thou mayst place 

In pride upon thy brow ; 
Nor Tadmor's queen her brow might grace 

With brighter gems than thou. 

And, like the Eoman matron when 

Asked for her jewels rare, 
Thou mayst point to thy noble sons, 

And say, "Behold them there!" 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 79 



And though in the unequal fight, 
Which thou hadst fearless braved, 

Thou yieldest to o'erpowering might, 
Yet is thine honor saved. 

And, like Zenobia when in chains, 
Though woes thy cup may fill, 

The glory of the past remains — 
Thou art the empress still. 



A MIGHTY king is bending o'er 
A silent form in death, 
Whose gallant bosom heaves no more 
With life's convulsive breath. 

He gazes where the loved one sleeps, 

A soldier in his shroud ; 
And sad the stern browed monarch weeps 

As weeps the thunder cloud. 

Oh, what are triumphs now to him 

But mockeries of woe! 
The light of fame itself is dim, 

And pales its useless glow. 



80 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

'Tis as the phosphorescent gleam 

That hovers o'er the dead ; 
By whose pale, unearthly beam 

No genial warmth is shed. 

He hears not now the wild acclaim 

That loudly peals on high 
With rapturous shout the dead one's name — 

Its memory brings a sigh. 

For, oh ! how empty will appear 

The acclamations borne 
In triumph through the vocal sphere 

To hearts of those that mourn ! 

The prince of knighthood's sword is sheathed, 

Fore'er uphung his lance ; 
His war steed the last time hath breathed 

The battle breeze of France. 

The Pyrenees no more shall hear 

His thundering legions tread; 
He sleeps upon the funeral bier 

The last sleep of the dead. 

The foldings of that banner proud 

That waved o'er Orecy's field 
Enwrap him as a fitting shroud 

Laid on his warlike shield. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 81 

No more with swelling heart he hears 

The shout on battle plain ; 
Farewell to far-famed Poitiers, 

And glorious Aquitaine ! 

The pride, the flower of chivalry, 

The noble, and the brave, 
Hath bent at last the vanquished knee — 

The captive of the grave. 

# # # # # 

The monarch gazed upon the dead 

As silent thus he lay ; 
Then sadly turned with drooping head 

And breaking heart away. 

And from that day his eye grew dim, 

His race of glory run ; 
A few short years he slept with him — 

The father with the son. 

But Albion's heart with pride shall swell 

At mention of each name, 
When Buglish annalists shall tell 

Their deeds of deathless fame. 

For though long lingering years may glide, 

The world can ne'er forget, 
That when the English Edwards died, 

Two brightest stars had set. 



82 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



\ 



[Ipn | am §tm% 



WHEN I am gone the sun will slrine 
As brightly as it shineth now ; 
And nature's face shall show no sign 
Of brooding sorrow on its brow. 

The birds will sing as sweetly then, 

The flowers of spring will bloom as gay, 

When I from midst the sons of men 
To the dark grave have passed away. 

Dear friends may dwell, with fond regret, 

Upon my memory for awhile ; 
But even they will soon forget 

Their grief, and learn again to smile. 

We pass away as clouds of spring 
Borne by the breeze o'er landscape fair, 

And like the swallow's rapid wing, 
Which leaves no traces in the air. 

Alas ! how soon is man forgot 

Who once from earth hath passed away ! 
It seems that time's erasive blot 

Falls on him ere his corpse decay. 



JAMES DEEUYTEE BLAOKWELL. 83 

It seems as if the closing tomb, 

Which darkly hides him from the view, 

Within its deep and caverned gloom 
Hath power to clasp his memory too. 



OH ! would you have us back again, 
With all of honor fled, 
Each better, nobler impulse slain, 
Each manly purpose dead ? 

For what is all of manhood worth 

Without the manly soul, 
That quickening spark of heavenly birth 

Which dignifies the whole ? 

'Twere better far that spirit bold 
To own which all time braves, 

Than in the tyrant's grasp to hold 
A band of timid slaves. 

Say, is it wisdom that pursues 

Our love with rights denied, 
And woos us as the Kalmuc woos, 

With violence, his bride ? 



$+ 



84 THE POETIOAL WORKS OF 

The stream the winter's cold breath binds, 
Eesists the north wind wild ; 

But through the plains obedient winds 
When April's skies have smiled. 

And thus the Southron's heart of pride 

May unto kindness yield, 
And stand in future by your side 

On many a glorious field. 

Yea 5 ere your banner's stars be set, 
Or meteor stripes be furled, 

May bear you with that ensign yet 
In triumph round the world. 



Har^ttt^H to Jhtmm8[ §t^$to + 

OTJB summer guests, our summer guests, 
We bid you all adieu ; 
What shadows gather o'er our brows 
When taking leave of you ! 

Our summer guests, we've spent with you 

Such happy, happy hours, 
That Time's swift footsteps as he passed 

Seemed but to tread on flowers. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 85 



Alas ! the hours so softly moved 

Toward that silent shore, 
We heeded not their rapid flight 

Till days and weeks were o'er. 

And now we wake as from a dream, 
Whose sweetness none may tell 5 

We wake to grasp the parting hand, 
And speak the sad farewell. 

Farewell ! we'll miss you in the morn 
Along the once thronged street ; 

Nor yet beneath the shades of eve 
Your glances may we meet. 

Farewell ! and ere we meet again 

What changes may we know ! 
What checkered scenes, perchance, may be 

Of happiness and woe ! 

Alas ! all may not come again ; 

And should ye all be here, 
Oh ! will the faces ye have left 

All, all again appear ? 

Yes ; some may meet before the time 
When summer's harvests wave ; 

May meet, alas ! but not on earth — 
May meet beyond the grave. 



86 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



Farewell ! and as the trembling strings 

Will murmurs still prolong. 
Although the one that touched the lyre 

Hath ceased and hushed the song, 

So memory of each parted one 

Shall in our bosoms dwell 
Long after our sad, quivering lips 

Have framed their last farewell. 

Yes ; long in our deserted hearts 

Your memory shall remain ; 
As solitudes will long repeat 

Some dying echo's strain. 

Farewell ! and in each dear one's breast, 

May never grief appear; 
Nor joy be as a summer guest, 

But stay throughout the year. 



QO transient is man's stay on earth, 
O So few his fleeting years, 
It matters little if his life 
Be spent in joy or tears. 



JAMES DERTJYTER BLACK WELL. 87 

The longest life of man below, 

How narrow is its span ! 
Upon the retrospect it seems 

To close ere well began. 

For centuries the patriarchs lived 

In flush of manhood's pride ; 
But even of the oldest one 

The record is, " He died." 

Successive generations pass 

To that dread goal, the grave, 
E'en as the ocean's flowing tide, 

Where wave glides after wave. 

But, oh ! there is another life, 

Whose years may ne'er be o'er, 
Though sun and moon and stars shall fade, 

And earth shall be no more. 

And if we in that coming world 

May live in endless bliss, 
It matters not what joy or grief 

Our hearts may know in this. 



88 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



| Htmb^r Wfevfi uq nil l\t J>ui|$ ! 

IWONDEE where are all the boys 
Who went to school with me, 
Who shared with me in childhood's joys 
Its frolic and its glee ! 

Some few around me now I see 

Are grown to bearded men ; 
I scarce believe that they can be 

The children I knew then. 

All lovely then, joy's radiant smile 

Sat on each happy brow, 
That knew no grief or care the while — 

But it is different now. 

The summer suns have bronzed each cheek 
That then was smooth and fair; 

And snowy locks begin to streak 
With gray their changing hair. 

But, oh ! the change is greater far 

Within their hearts, 1 know, 
Which years have seamed with many a scar, 

And draped with thoughtful woe. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 89 



Alas ! that nights of watchfulness, 

And days of toil and strife. 
Should have within them power to press 

The gladness from our life. 

Oh ! why should gathering years erase 

From the beholder's eyes 
Bright childhood's smile, wherein we trace 

The dream of paradise ? 

As if within the fresh young heart 

The memory of heaven 
Yet stayed, reluctant to depart, 

Like lingering hues of even. 

Christ says to those who in him trust 

To be redeemed from sin, 
If ye would enter heaven, ye must 

As children enter in. 

And, oh ! it soothes the heart in pain, 

To think, in heaven above 
We shall as children be again, 

In innocence and love. 



90 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



SHE went forth from her father's hall ; 
Her airy step was light ; 
Joy sat upon her brow, and all 
Was beautiful and bright. 

She leaned upon a manly arm, 

And gazed up in his eye ; 
E'en as the lake, which zephyrs charm 

To rest, looks on the sky. 

Beneath his glance she seemed to rest, 

E'en as the waters sleep 
In gladness on the ocean's breast, 

When summer stills the deep. 

She came again ! She came alone ! 

There was all o'er her cheek 
The pallor of the church yard thrown — 

Her failing limbs were weak. 

The manly form low slept in death, 

Far on the distant plain ; 
Nor winter's blast nor summer's breath 

May rouse him thence again. 



JAMES DER UTTER BLACK WELL. 91 

She came, as comes the good ship's wreck, 

Dismantled by the storm ; 
With rifted keel and shattered deck, 

An undistinguished form. 



§|> jlmg fo mif tynl jl uttg agant ! 

OH, sing to me that song again ! 
My soul delights to hear! 
Its melting, melancholy strain 
Falls softly on my ear. 

Its murmurs soothe the troubled breast, 

E'en as the halcyon gave, 
When on the tide it built its nest, 

A calm to ocean's wave. 

It falls as gently on the soul, 

As dew upon the flower; 
Soft as the whispering breeze that stole 

Through man's primeval bower. 

And oh, what recollections cling 

Eound that familiar lay ! 
What memories that strain will bring, 

Of joys long passed away ! 



92 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



It seems to roll away the stone 

Of memory's sepulchre, 
And bid each scene of joy I've known 

Again to reappear. 

By its loved tone, to failing hope 
A strength renewed is given ; 

For it hath magic power to ope 
The very gate of heaven. 

And when upon the verge I stand 
Of death's unmeasured sea, 

Ere yet my spirit leaves earth's strand, 
Oh, sing that song to me ! 

And, as 'twas said, by bards of yore, 

The swan in music dies ; 
So that sweet strain, when life is o'er, 

Shall waft me to the skies ! 



OH, pledge them in silence ; let no word be spoken ; 
For better that silence may tell 
Of the deep buried grief, when the heart that is 
broken 
On the past may in memory dwell. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 93 

Oh,* pledge them in silence — the dark brooding 
sorrow 

That reigns in the bosom's recess 
Must e'er -be unvoiced, for grief cannot borrow 

Fit language its depths to express. 

The stream runs the deepest when peacefully flow- 
ing, 

And we hear not the lapse of its wave; 
And tears are the saddest when silent bestrewing 

The sod o'er the fresh covered grave. 

Then pledge them in silence; let no word be spoken, 

And only the swift falling brine 
That the eyelids distil, our deep grief betoken 

As we quaff in our sorrow the wine. 



duit \n$ n I|tujk toij Iftp* to tor* 

GOD has a work for thee to do — 
Thou mayst not idle be — 
A mighty task, that reaches through 
A vast eternity. 

Within that weak, decaying frame, 

There is a spirit bright, 
A quenchless and undimming flame 

Of ever burning light. 



94 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Thou hast a soul, whose priceless worth 
A thousand times outweighs 

The treasures of this teeming earth 
On which we fondly gaze. 

Thou hast a dread archangel's power 
At present wrapped in clay, 

Which in God's own appointed hour 
Shall all its might display. 

Thou art no flow'ret of the field 
To fade in Autumn's sigh; 

By so-called death there is revealed 
A life that may not die. 

A mightier destiny attends 

Upon thy failing breath ; 
Lo ! for the spirit which ascends 

There's no such thing as death. 

And when the universe is riven 

Thou shalt forever dwell 
A flaming seraph bright in heaven,— 

Or else a fiend in hell. 

Thy work, it is thy heart to train 
For that bright world above, 

To stamp upon the soul again 
God's image traced in love. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 95 



To learn that lesson from the skies, 
This world is but the school; 

Who knows not that, however wise, 
He else may be — a fool, 



HE rested there, that child, alone ; 
Men passed him heedless by, 
Nor saw the strange, wild light that shone 
From out that bright young eye. 

They thought him but some vagrant youth, 

Some idler from the school, 
Some truant who liked not, in truth, 

The master's wholesome rule. 

And, oh ! upon his brow revealed 

No passing glance might see, 
The mark where destiny had sealed 

His immortality. 

But visions, coming thick and fast, 

Were flashing even then 
Through his young brain, ere childhood past, 

A giant among men. 



96 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



The angel in the days of old 

Escaped Manoah's eyes. 
Until he saw the wings unfold 

To bear him to the skies. 

And thus it was with that fair child. 

The world knew not his worth, 
And only on his genius smiled 

When it had left the earth. 



HOW dear to me my humble cot ! 
Oh ! I would not exchange 
Its low ridged roof for regal dome, 
That dome would be so strange. 

But that dear cot is as a friend 

I've known for many years, 
And it has seen my smiles of joy 

And bitter flowing tears. 

No tree is there whose trembling leaves 

Light quiver in the gale, 
But gently whispers in my ear 

Some unforgotten tale. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 97 

The fragile flowers, whose fleeting bloom 

Fades in the autumn blast, 
There breathe into my pensive soul 

The memories of the past. 

The very stains upon its walls — 

Remembered, oh, how well! 
Though meaningless to others 7 eyes, 

To me their story tell. 

? Tis there upon the well worn floor, 

I've heard my infant's feet ; 
Oft pattering like a falling shower, — 

A music, oh, how sweet ! 

And there Fve looked upon the dead 

I held in life most dear, 
And dropped upon their coffin lid 

The last sad, parting tear. 

Not for the mansions of the great 

Would I forsake that cot; 
For, oh ! the memory of the past 

Makes it a hallowed spot. 

And as I gaze upon that cot, 

Will memory unroll, 
In letters that may never fade, 

The record of my soul. 



98 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



OH ! dwell not on departed joys ; 
They have forever fled. 
Oh, let them in oblivion rest, 
With the forgotten dead. 

For if we would past joys recall 

To memory again, 
Unbidden with them will return 

Too well remembered pain. 

Alas ! each smile of happiness 
Was followed soon by tears ; 

Then let them both together sleep 
Within the grave of years. 



Ifo §ttt[ tdjp l|ttXlttt$. 

I GAVE to thee my boyhood's heart, 
Fresh as the morning dew, 
As pure from any other taint 
As yon sweet concave's blue. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 99 

The first fruits of my soul I gave ; 

It was an offering free ; 
My heart ne'er had a single throb 

That did not beat for thee. 

I did not bask in beauty's smile 

From any other's eyes ; 
Thou wert alone the morning sun 

That lit up all my skies. 

But didst thou give me back again 

A love as fresh as mine ? 
My heart ne'er held a guest but thee — 

Say, was it so with thine % 

Say, was there not some prior one 
Whose charms might better please, 

Who drained off all thy wine of love 
And left me but the lees ? 

I do not ask a second love ; 

I gave to thee my first. 
A second love ! so light the gift, 

It almost seems accursed. 

For well my own experience tells 

A second love were vain — 
A faithful heart that once had loved 

Can never love again. 



100 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



I know there are some roving ones 
That flit from flower to flower, 

Like butterflies 'neath Summer's smiles ; 
Such never knew Love's power. 

The love that liveth on alike 

In sunshine and in storm, 
Like to the crystal when once set, 

Can take no other form ; 

For true love hath no plastic power; 

It meets the heaviest stroke 
Unbent, unaltered, and alone 

Yields when the heart is broke. 



>u i\t J)mtfyftmt + 



THOU pretty, little modest flower, 
That dost to sight unfold 
Beneath sweet April's gentle shower 
Thy tiny breast of gold. 

I love to see thee strew the way 
Amid the meadows green, 

And all thy modest charms display 
To deck the peaceful scene. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 101 

Thou art the harbinger of Spring 

That cometh with the bee, 
And with the vernal birds that sing 

On each emblossomed tree. 

Thou bloomest 'neath sweet smiling skies, 

And spread'st thy golden breast 
To woo the rainbowed butterflies 

Upon thy bloom to rest. 

When with bright dews of morning wet, 

Oh, beauteous flowery gem ! 
Thou seemest as a coronet, 

A fairy's diadem. 

I well remember when a boy 

Thou first didst greet mine eyes, 
I plucked thy yellow bloom with joy 

As 'twere a golden prize. 

And, oh, sweet flower ! I prize thee still — 

A treasure yet thou art — 
And still thy golden bloom will thrill 

With ecstasy my heart. 

For through thee whispers Spring's glad voice 

Of birds, and bees, and flowers, 
And bids my thankful heart rejoice 

In hope of Summer's hours. 



102 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



T*tttt$ J«Hfy 



OH, if young love be but a dream, 
A folly and delusion, 
So bright its gorgeous visions seem, 
That truth were an intrusion. 

For in this world wherein we see 
So much of grief and sadness, 

Who would not for a moment be 
E'en cheated into gladness ? 

The rainbow's hues are not less fair 
Which span the sky in brightness, 

Though on the touch each color there 
Dissolves in airy lightness. 

And thus young love's enchanting spell 
Although it be but seeming, 

Is yet so sweet that none can tell 
The raptures of its dreaming. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 103 



lip ji fajlaijk ttt j&t$iraH»+ 

An emigrant to Australia had carried an English skylark to his new 
home, and hung its cage outside of his tent door. The effect of its song on 
the rough miners is attempted to be described in the following lines : 

AWAY, four thousand miles away, 
Upon a foreign strand, 
Where flow Australia's mountain streams 
O'er beds of golden sand, 

Upon a bright, a Sabbath morn, 

A band of exiles met; 
There was a shadow on each brow, 

And every cheek was wet. 

And what had touched those rugged breasts, 

And called into each eye 
The flowing w T aters of the soul, 

From founts that long seemed dry ? 

It was a bird, a simple bird, 

That sang its matins there, 
And brought to memory again 

Old England's landscape fair ! 

It touched a spring in every heart, 

That sweetly warbled strain ! 
And recollections of the past 

Came crowding o'er the brain. 



104 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

The cottage, with its vine clad porch, 
Eose on that distant shore, 

And many unforgotten scenes 
Thronged on the heart once more. 

And there, upon that far off coast, 



Beyond the ocean's wave 



The visions of the past appeared 
Like spectres from the grave. 

The rolling billows ceased to flow, 

The waters ceased to be 
Between them and their dear old home ; 

Lo, there was no more sea ! 

And that far distant tropic land, 

Whose aspect was so strange, 
Into old England's verdant vales 

Had passed — a magic change ! 

The song bird ceased. The strain was o'er, 

And as it died in air, 
The sad, yet sweet illusion fled — 

The strangers' land was there ! 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 105 



J> ttmm©j Jltrfr m Wjjath^ 

ASOLITABY warbler sings 
Upon the leafless tree, 
Whose carol the remembrance brings 
Of brighter days to me ! 

For in thy gentle note, sweet bird, 

I recognize the lay 
Whose melting music I have heard 

Beneath the skies of May. 

'Twas then, when through the wood's domain 

Was verdant every bough, 
I listened to thy varied strain, 

As I am listening now. 

? Twas when sweet flow'rets decked my way 

With rose and lily's bloom — 
The lily is no longer gay, 

The rose is in its tomb ! 

But in thy lay I seem to hear 

The Spring its voice prolong, 
As sweetly falleth on my ear 

Thy clear and joyous song. 



106 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Again with vernal beauty fraught, 
Blooms every opening flower, 

As if thy magic notes had brought 
Spring's resurrection hour. 

Sweet bird ! within thy downy breast 

May spring eternal glow; 
There may its sunlight ever rest — 

No winter mayst thou know. 

And, oh ! when in the vale of years 
My spring of life shall fade, 

May some bright memory which cheers, 
Like thee, my soul pervade. 



&mp»* 



THE tumult of my youth has past, 
Its reign within my breast is o'er, 
It sinks as sinks the tempest's blast, 
When dies the storm along the shore. 

But yet, as when the swelling wave 
Subsides, by zephyrs lulled to sleep, 

Long will the rock ribbed ocean cave 
Prolong the murmur of the deep. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 107 

So will my bosom's inmost cell 
The memories of the past retain, 

E'en as within that cavern dwell 
The echoes of the storm vexed main. 

Their echoes there shall ever roll 

In sounds, though mellow, yet sublime, 

Eternal as the human soul, 

Beyond the ending years of time. 

For earth shall fail, and sun shall fade, 
And stricken planets leave the sky ; 

But deathless memory, undecayed, 
Shall live, and will not, cannot die. 



I LOVE him, oh, how deep and strong ! 
Oh, thou, my God, forgive 
The unhallowed flame, if it be wrong, — 
For, 'gainst it how I strive ! 

For I am as the wretched one 

Upon the Afric plain, 
Bound whom the serpent's coil is thrown, 

And struggles there in vain. 



108 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

My firm resolves too weak I find 

To curb this wild desire ; 
'Tis as if one should seek to bind 

With cords the flaming fire. 

No ! the deep passion of my soul, 

Like fires in iEtna pent, 
Brooks not the reason's weak control — 

Like gossamer 'tis rent. 

Go where the torrent thunders o'er 

The rocky precipice, 
And bid its waters seek no more 

The depth of the abyss; 

Go bind the lightning in thy chain 
When flashing free above, 

Or still the storm that sweeps the main- 
Then bid me not to love. 



IN MEMORY OF COLONEL E. C. EDMONDS, WHO FELL IN PICKETT'S 
CHARGE AT GETTYSBURG, AND WAS BURIED ON THE FIELD. 

"VTO useless shroud enwraps him round ; 
-L-N The rude board at his head 
Alone tells where, in sleep profound, 
Eests the uncoffined dead. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 109 

And kindred's tears bedew him not; 

No kindred bands bestrew 
With votive flowers the hallowed spot 

Where calm he sleeps below. 

Far in a stranger's land he fell 

(The bravest of the brave), 
And there he sleeps, and none may tell 

The secret of his grave. 

The careless hand of busy toil 

Will soon each mark efface, 
And harvests of an alien soil 

Hide his last resting place. 

But honored be his warrior rest 

Beneath that distant sod ! 
And be his grave forever blest, 

Though only known to God ! 

There gently may the shades of night 

Their sweetest dew drops weep, 
And morn illume, with purest light, 

The spot where he may sleep. 

His grave, alas ! we know not where, 

But 'tis a sacred spot ! 
And angel bands shall hover there 

Though men may see them not ! 



110 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



I 1ST vain we search for happiness 
Within proud marble walls; 
For, oh, what scenes of deep distress 
Are found in princely halls ! 

And oft the glittering crown of gold 
Which princely brow adorns, 

Proves, if the tale were truly told, 
A very crown of thorns. 

We cannot tell from outward state 

Who are the truly blest ; 
Too often are the rich and great 

In heart but ill at rest. 

We see the budding rose display 

Its glories to the air, 
And know not that within decay 

Is dark corroding there. 



X *5 



Oh ! there are woes in every heart, 
Dark, hidden from the view, 

Like monsters of the deep which rest 
Beneath the ocean blue. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. Ill 



Then covet not another's goods, 
Each envious thought control; 

Thou dost not know the griefs which brood 
In darkness o'er his soul. 



THE world is not a bower of ease, 
Where we may soft recline, 
And woo the fragrance-loaded breeze 
Of odorous breath divine. 

No — 'tis a weary, rugged way, 
Where tempests beat in wrath 

Around poor mortals' heads, as they 
Pursue that toilsome path. 

And though there are some limpid springs 

Beside the path which flow, 
Whose cooling draught refreshment brings, 

Alas ! 'tis seldom so. 

Earth is the seat of anxious care 

That calls for strenuous toil ; 
And only those who labor there 

Eeap the reluctant soil. 



112 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

The world is but a battle field, 
Where blade meets blade in fight, 

And every one must basely yield 
Or combat for the right. 

And he who dreams of halcyon days, 

Misled by Hope's deceit 
To look alone for pleasant ways, 

Will soon find out the cheat. 



CANST thou forget me? Lo ! at opening day 
My heart on its first waking turns to thee; 
Thou art the morning star whose beaming ray 
First falls upon my soul when slumbers flee. 

Canst thou forget me ? Lo ! thy footsteps e'er 
Fall in my memory as the gentle rain, 

Which in soft trickling drops we grateful hear 
Distilling on the flow'rets of the plain. 

Canst thou forget me? Oh! thy soothing tone 
Is ever sounding as the song bird's voice 

Unto my spirit ; and wherever thrown 
On earth, its music makes my soul rejoice. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 113 

Canst tliou forget me! Lo ! the withered flower 
Thou gavest me at parting still I wear 

The nearest to my heart; and that dread hour 
Which sees my last of life shall find it there. 

Canst thou forget me ? In the busy street, 
Where thousands throng around me, there thou 
art; 

And in the desert where no hand I greet, 
Thy ever present smile beams on my heart. 

Canst thou forget me ? In the stilly night, 
When soft the moonbeams rest on rock and tree, 

Ere fall the dew drops on my closing sight 
Of balmy sleep, I breathe a prayer for thee. 

Canst thou forget me? Say, oh! linger still 

Within thy memory mine image yet ; 
Oh, with what rapture 'twould my bosom fill 

If thou wouldst tell me thou couldst not forget ! 



rr^HE world is all a masquerade, 
-A- And all men visors wear, 
Whose counterfeited features shade 
The real features there. 



114 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

And some there are in outward show 

As fair as fair may be ; 
But different far within we know 

The sad reality. 

There are false friends who wear the mask 

Of friendship and of love, 
Who in the light of fortune bask 

When skies are bright above. 

But when misfortune's gloomy cloud 

Obscures the light of day, 
Like leaves, when autumn winds blow loud, 

They swiftly fall away. 

There are false patriots, who profess 

To think and work alone 
Their country and mankind to bless — 

Too many such we've known. 

Alas ! there are too many such 

Who burn the midnight oil, 
Devising how they best may clutch 

With grasping hands the spoil. 

And, oh ! there are false Christians too, 
Like to those sculptured stones, 

Which are within, though fair to view, 
But " filled with dead men's bones " — 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 115 



Men who, like Judas on that day, 

That awful day of old, 
With kiss deceitful would betray 

Their God himself for gold. 

And woman, too, of masks may boast; 

Behold yon blooming miss, 
So amiable, she seems almost 

Too innocent to kiss. 

But often the unlucky youth, 

Who wooed the fawn's meek charms, 
When he awakens finds in truth 

A wild-cat in his arms. 



THEEE is a secret in my inmost soul I 
Which there must rest forever unrevealed, 
E'en like some arch magician's magic scroll 
By cabalistic word forever sealed, 

That lingers there, as hopeless wretch may dwell 
In some deep dungeon 'neath the despot's tower, 

Consigned to darkness in that sunless cell, 
Whose gloominess attests the tyrant's power. 



11(5 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Words may not utter it — my lips are mute 
As lips of marble carved by sculptor old ; 

Nor yet to murmuring lyre or trembling lute 
In faintest touches may the tale be told. 

I love, how deeply ! but may not declare 
That love's deep meaning to the one I love ; 

I only breathe it to the midnight air, 
And sigh its burden to the stars above. 

I may not tell ; but, oh ! if she could know 
How full a tide of love my poor heart gave 

To her and her alone, 'twould soothe my woe, 
And I should sink contented to the grave. 



>{p p^ !^fo$& 



SEE how yon mountains far away, 
Whose graceful outlines bound the view, 
In beauty to the gaze display 

Their mellowed tints of azure blue ! 

But well we know, that shadows there 
Are by the deep woods densely flung ; 

And threatening cliffs, with rude rocks bare, 
Are darkly o'er wild torrents hung. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 117 

But distance veils the rugged scene. 

And softens every prospect rude, 
Till peace, mid gauze-like haze serene, 

Seems there on halcyon wing to brood. 

Thus time will lighten every grief 
That darkens e'er our path below, 

And passing years will bring relief 
To hearts, however wrung with woe. 



iitr Hutmimn 1%*+ 



OTJB mountain boys ! our mountain boys ! 
Their hearts are bold and true, 
And pure as the unclouded sky 
Above our mountains blue. 

Their step is free as forest deer, 

Like eaglet's glance their eye, 
And when the voice of honor bids 

They do not fear to die. 

In vain ye search the lettered page 

Of classic Greece or Rome, 
For truer and for nobler men 

Than are our boys at home. 



118 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



Not they who died at Marathon 

Or famed Thermopylae, 
Or fell round sea girt Salamis, 

Could more undaunted be. 

Not those who Eome's proud eagles bore 

Triumphant on their way 
O'er all a subjugated world 

Were braver men than they. 

Our mountain boys ! our mountain boys ! 

The demi-gods of fame 
Might own a kindred soul with theirs 

Nor feel a blush of shame. 

And when they die, as sacred dust 

Shall unto earth return 
As that which forms a patriot Tell 

Or Bruce of Bannockburn. 



>u Ilm §♦ T_ 



FAKE WELL ! we may not meet again ; 
Our paths in life must sever; 
But yet Fve known thee not in vain — 
I can forget thee never. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 119 



The memory of a joy that's past 

By time is never faded ; 
Throughout our life, on earth 'twill last, 

Howe'er that life be shaded. 

'Twill flourish, as the mistletoe, 
When all around is blighted ; 

And like yon sweet beamed planet show 
To traveller benighted. 

I care not what my future lot 
May bring of grief or sadness, 

Our friendship still shall be a spot 
In life's drear waste of gladness. 

It shall be an oasis there 
'Twill glad me to remember ; 

Like memory of May day fair, 
Eecalled in bleak December. 



120 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



Hip Jjjij m flp W\$i&+ 

FROM THE GERMAN OF EMANUEL GEIBEL. 
(Dedicated to W. W. Valentine, artist.) 

A YOUTH rode forth into the fields, 
" Adieu, my love," he said ; 
" And I will be with thee again 
Ere morning's blushing red." 

And as he rode he gayly sang 
From out his inmost breast, 

A song of love ; of fond desire 
To that fair maid addressed. 

But as he came to the green wood 
Where sweet the roses grew, 

The dryad of the grove appeared 
Eesplendent to his view. 

Her eye was soft as lunar beam, 

Her cheeks as roses fair, 
Her locks like gold of orient morn 

When breathes the vernal air. 

" Stay yet awhile, thou beauteous boy ! 
Ah, whither dost thou ride ? 
Eein up thy graceful, slender steed, 
And in my bower abide. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 121 

" The air is murmuring through the tops 
Of waving linden trees ; 
Here we may mingle kisses sweet 
Where flowers perfume the breeze." 

Tte youth replied, " Oh, tempt me not ! 

Eepose 1 seek not now. 
I have at home a lovely maid, 

As beautiful as thou. 

" To-morrow I will seek her cot, 
And there with joy will spring, 
For then our happy wedding day 
Shall promised raptures bring." 

" Although thou hast at home a maid, 
That may in beauty vie 
With me, — thou shalt not her embrace, 
For tears shall dim thine eye." 

The dryad spoke, and whirled the band 

She wore around her hair 
With her white hand. The startled steed, 

Wild plunging, threw him there. 

All o'er his cheek a pallor spread, 

The plaintive wood bird sang, 
Ah, sorrowful ! ah, sorrowful ! 

The echoing forest rang. 



122 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



So when with morning's early light 

Her lover did not come, 
Uneasy was the maiden's heart, 

And sad she left her home. 

Then went she forth into the wood, 

Her absent love to seek ; 
All downcast was her saddened eye, 

Her failing limbs were weak. 

And all the little flowers looked sad, 
The birdling's voice sang low, 

In muffled notes as though 'twere hushed 
By sympathetic woe. 

She found him there beneath the flowers 
That breathed their fragrant breath 

Unto the air. Her true love dead, 
Yet beautiful in death. 

She stooped and kissed him as he lay 
Beneath the sweet red flowers ; 

And tears, like those of April day. 
Bedewed the earth in showers. 

And thus upon her wedding day, 

Instead of love and joy, 
Lo, there were grief and flowing tears, 

For that poor, perished boy ! 



JAMES DEBUYTER BLAGKWELL. 123 



){p Jtrafy. 



THEEB was a calm upon the tropic sea, 
The waves were still as waves may ever be ; 
Like one vast mirror spread the tide below, 
Reflecting to the gaze the heaven's rich glow, 
And bearing on its clear, unruffled breast, 
The image of each towering mountain crest, 
And in its azure depths the eye might see 
Tall rock, and glittering spire, and verdant tree ; 
Nor sprung there on the shore one flow'ret fair 
But found its semblance in those waters there. 
The very winds on pinions fluttering weak 
In soft caresses kissed each floweret's cheek, 
And ocean's shells low murmuring on the shore, 
Told that the vengeance of the storm was o'er. 
The snow white blossoms from the groves around 
Fell as the wintry flakes without a sound, 
And all was fair as though heaven's bounty gave 
A paradise above and 'neath the wave. 

With cable strong and crooked anchor fast, 
And sail that idly flapped against the mast, 
A swan like vessel sat upon the tide 
Whose ribs of oak had oft the storms defied ; 



124 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Had seen the lightnings, heard the thunders roll, 

From equatorial circle to each pole. 

Alike in tropic as in polar seas 

Her flag had fluttered in the rising breeze. 

But, ah ! that flag upon its folds of night 

Bore the terrific skull and cross-bones white; 

For by a pirate crew its deck was trod — 

A desperate gang as e'er defied their God — 

And proudly to the winds their flag unfurled 

Of midnight hue, and warred upon the world. 

Now stretched along the well swabbed deck they lay 

And whiled in varied talk the hours away 

Of their last prize, and where they next should find 

As rich a cargo to their grasp resigned. 

And converse wandered to each lovely maid 

They wooed and won beneath magnolia shade, 

Of raven ringlets or rich auburn hair, 

Of starlike eyes and cheeks as lilies fair — 

To health of each they quaff the flowing wine, 

And celebrate in song her charms divine. 

Nor wanting was the meerschaum's fragrant bowl 

Which breathes its calming influence o'er the soul — 

From many a bearded lip the wreathing smoke 

Curled up on high and into ringlets broke. 

And many a stalwart form might there be seen, 

Strong as that gladiator's frame, I ween, 

O'er whose cold brow the shade of death is thrown, 

Yet lives forever in the sculptured stone. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 125 

But who was lie who stood all lonely there, 
Upon whose darkened brow sat brooding care ; 
Whose eye in sadness wandered o'er the main, 
As if no light of joy 'twould know again J l 
His glance was bright, but not like morning's beam, 
'Twas the terrific meteor's fearful gleam ; 
'Twas as the lurid lightning's blinding flash 
When peals on high the thunder's deaf ning crash. 
'Twas as the light from some volcano's glow, 
When dread eruptions urge the lava's flow, 
And heaving earthquakes shake the world below. 
And as from darkest cloud the lightning leaps 
When through the sky its course destructive sweeps, 
So his bright eye, in its unearthly glow, 
Gleamed from a soul surcharged with darkest woe. 
He was the chief who ruled that lawless baud, 
And bent their daring spirits to command : 
A feat more difficult than his who broke 
Hyrcania's tigers to the servile yoke; 
For they who nothing feared on earth beside, 
Like cowards trembled when he did but chide; 
And many a one who shuddered not to die, 
Quailed 'neath the glances of his piercing eye. 
His limbs were not of that gigantic mould 
Which nature gave to earth born sons of old; 
His sinewy frame seemed almost delicate, 
And fair his face, save where the sun had sate 



126 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



With bronzing kisses on bis beardless cheek. 
As if a kindred soul within 'twould seek. 

But yet not ever had young Albert been 

The daring, reckless outlaw whom we've seen ; 

There was a time — 'tis now some years ago — 

When by the sparkling Bappahannock's flow, 

Beneath the village master's gentle rule, 

He was of all the gentlest boy in school. 

Alas I that happy day too fast it flew ; 

The years rolled on, the boy to manhood grew ; 

And with the years of manhood, lo ! there came 

The quivering ecstasy of love's sweet flame. 

To those who saw her not 'twere hard to tell 

The budding glories of young Isabel. 

She was as graceful as the antelope ; 

Her eyes' bright glance was as the dawn of hope, 

And yet as soft as that of cooing dove, 

Diffusing round an atmosphere of love. 

The Grecian contour of her face was seen 

In harmony with her young sylph like mien. 

In fine, so bright her radiant beauties shone, 

She seemed the graces three combined in one. 

And Albert loved her and was loved again, 

With love as deep as the unfathomed main. 

'Tis said that southern climes alone may know 

How fierce the flames of burning love may glow ; 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 127 

Be this I care not bow — young Albert knew 

No other life than that from her he drew. 

Of his enchanted world she was the sun, 

The only one he cared to gaze upon ; 

Without her presence earth to him were hell, 

And hell seemed heaven if she there might dwell. 

His heart forever thrilled at her loved tone, 

As thrills the harp o'er which the breeze hath blown ; 

To his rapt soul her voice would ever bring 

A joy seraphic as when angels sing. 

He hung in rapture on her faintest breath ; 

To see, to hear her not, 'twere worse than death. 

But disappointment ever lurks below — 
The day of joy gives place to night of woe. 
Our brightest hopes on earth forever die, 
As fade the colors of the evening sky 
When all the glowing tints that lovely bloom, 
Eesign their glories to the night's deep gloom. 
'Twas thus with Albert ; for another came — 
An aged suitor — but wealth backed his claim. 
The wretched parents owned his golden charms, 
And gave their daughter to an old man's arms. 

The feast was spread, the lamps were burning 

bright, 
The bride was robed in flowing garments white ; 



128 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

But whiter far was her pale cheek, I know, 

All blanched and colorless with speechless woe. 

And, lo ! there stood the legate of the skies 

To hallow that unholy sacrifice ! 

God's priests have often stood around the pyre 

Where shrieked the victim in consuming fire ; 

But ne'er did superstition's vengeful creed 

Grace with God's priests a more soul damning deed 

Than that which youth, and love, and beauty, gave 

Into an old man's arms — as to a grave ! 

A ringing shot was heard — it died away ; 
All weltering in his blood the bridegroom lay ! 
An arm w r as seen to clasp the bride's slight waist — 
A step was by her side — 'twas gone in haste ; 
But in its swift retreat the bride it bore, 
And Albert and his love were seen no more ! 

Speed, gallant steed ! Behold, the vengeful pack 
That seeks thy master's life is on thy track ! 
Speed, like the swift wind, o'er the lengthened plain, 
Swim the deep river — up the mountain, strain. 
Speed, gallant steed — for never greater need 
Urged thy fleet sinews of pure Arab breed ! 
Speed, gallant steed — thy master's life or death 
Hangs tremblingly upon thy panting breath ! 
Through all the land they raise the hue and cry ; 
Stern justice bids — the murderer must die. 



JAMES DERVTTER BLACKWELL. 129 

But vain they sought by mountain, plain and river, 
And Albert and his love are gone forever. 

The years rolled on ; an exile from his home, 

Young Albert wandered o'er the dark sea's foam ; 

'Neath many changing skies his fortunes tried, 

And still his Isabel was by his side. 

She was the star that lit his storm vexed way ; 

The radiant bow that decked each clouded day ; 

The dove of peace and promise to his ark ; 

One spot of light where all around was dark. 

Her hand that gently smoothed his flowing hair, 

Brushed from his bosom the traces of despair ; 

And in his breast the tumult raging wild, 

Instant grew calm when she upon him smiled. 

But still, at times, a dark, corroding grief, 

Like vulture preyed and gave him no relief. 

A man proscribed upon his native shore, 

He roamed unfriended all the wide world o'er. 

Want came upon him as an armed man : 

Dark was the course of life in blood began, 

And worse than all — the torturing thought was 

hell- 
Death hovered grimly o'er his Isabel. 
He sadly saw her fading day by day, 
Like morning mist before the sun away, 
And drooping lowly as some flow'ret sweet 
Droops 'neath the pelting of the noontide heat ; 



130 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Until, at length, the cords of life were riven, 
And rose her soul, on angel's wings, to heaven. 
Then reason reeled, and hope forever iled ; 
The light of life within his soul was dead. 
Then in despair his arms on high he tossed, 
And shrieking wildly, gave up all for lost. 
In frenzied words the God of heaven defied, 
And cursed fore'er the angel from his side. 
Hate to his bosom came a welcome guest ; 
His blood to poison curdled in his breast ; 
The light of conscience in his soul grew dim — 
Why should he love a world that hated him ? 
Gone! gone forever was that guiding light 
That might, through life, direct his course aright, 
And o'er his lonely pathway from afar 
The night had gathered and there was no star. 
Remembrance of the past to him was hell, 
And vain he strove the torture to repel. 
With eager lip the maddening cup he drained ; 
With riot and debauch his soul was stained, 
Until, at last, his heart a moral wreck, 
He ruled — the captain of a pirate deck. 

What seeth Albert through the telescope ? 
Why grasps he now so firm the tightened rope ? 
Is it the sign of dread typhoon afar ? 
No ! 'Tis the signal of more desperate war 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 131 

Than of the elements. For, lo ! the sails 

Of the pursuing cruisers flout the gales. 

The sea breeze hath set in, and ere the sun 

Hath climbed the heavens, the battle must be won ; 

For, if defeat ensue, a felon's death — 

The hangman's hated cord shall check his breath. 

The dread alternative now Albert sees, 

His doom approaching on the freshening breeze. 

Wild with the thought of fight, his eyeballs glow ; 

And yet you hear his order calm and low. 

The deck is cleared for action; anchor weighed, 

And the black banner from the mast displayed. 

Thick o'er the planks the sifted sand is spread ; 

To drink the blood that hath not yet been shed 

The guns are shotted, boardiug pikes prepared, 

And every arm is to the shoulder bared. 

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"W *7T *fc "«• W ~fc 

The combat opens ; lo ! a deaf'ning roar 

Is loudly echoed far along the shore. 

The rude concussion rends the vaulted sky, 

And dread reverberating rocks reply. 

The sulphury siroc enshrouds each ship, 

And flames are breathing from each cannon's lip ; 

The men, like demons from the world below, 

Dash the death dealing engines to and fro ; 

The blood spouts forth from many a streaming vein, 

And all the deck is crowded with the slain. 



132 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

The pirate flag is struck ; a wild hurrah 

Kings on the air above the crash of war, 

And back again peals the defiant yell. 

As though 'twere uttered from the depths of hell. 

Another shot ; it strikes the pirate hull — 

The tide is rushing in — the hold is full. 

The pumps are promptly manned, but all in vain ; 

Slow sinks the vessel in the watery main. 

One mighty plunge — the surging waters roar — 

Down goes the pirate ship, to rise no more. 

But ere that vessel sank beneath the wave, 

And found in ocean's depths a liquid grave, 

Faint on the ear those murmuring accents fell, 

Which uttered in despair, " My Isabel /" 



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I SEE thee in thy beauty's bloom, 
And thou art as a star, 
That lighteth up the evening's gloom 
From heavenly realms afar. 

The graceful contour of thy face, 
The drooping of thine eye, 

No coining years may e'er erase ; 
They'll haunt me till I die. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 133 

Thou seeni'st to me a temple pure 

Made by the haud divine, 
With light from heaven irradiate o'er ; 

Of love and hope the shrine. 

'Tis not thine eyes' sweet melting roll, 

Nor rose tints of the skin, 
That gives thee beauty — 'tis the soul, 

Bright beaming from within. 

Thy outward form is but the wave 

Of some transparent deep, 
Whose waters clear disclose the grave 

Where priceless treasures sleep. 

How many sweet affections dwell 

In that pure heart of thine ! 
It is a deep, unfathomed well, 

A rich, exhaustless mine. 

No sound the wind harp will afford — - 

All silent 'twill remain ; 
But when the breeze hath swept its chord, 

Then swells the iEolian strain. 

Thus rest within thy spotless mind 

Emotions deep and low, 
Which only need occasion find 

In gushing streams to flow. 



134 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Blest as the immortal gods is he 
Who shall thy pure love gain ; 

More rich than lords of land or sea 
The favored one shall reign. 

Young peri, were my years as thine, 
Did Time more lightly kiss 

My furrowed cheek, to call thee mine 
Were more than earthly bliss. 

But age, which silvers o'er my hair, 
Hath quenched my bosom's fire ; 

Lo, as some sculptured goddess fair, 
I see thee and admire ! 



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HOW lovely, how surpassing fair, 
The maiden with the light brown hair, 
Whose flowing locks, almost divine, 
Like glittering sunbeams intertwine ! 
Her eyes are like the morning star, 
That glances in the east afar, 
And win their way with magic art 
Into the coldest gazer's heart. 



JAMES BERUYTER BLACKWELL. 135 

Her cheeks are like the glowing west, 

When calmly sinks the sun to rest, 

Ere yet upon the blushing sky 

The rose tints of the evening die. 

Her lips are like two roses red, 

Bright with the dew the night hath shed ; 

The nectar there, 'twist I and you, 

Were sweeter far than honey dew. 

Sweet girl, oh I if she were but mine, 

For me the sun would brighter shine ; 

No shadows darken o'er my way, 

But deepest night be turned to day. 

For me would flow'rets ever spring ; 

For me the birds would ever sing ; 

No wintry skies or snows appear, 

But summer last throughout the year. 

The Moslem feigns his paradise 

Is lit by blooming houries' eyes ; 

But, oh ! sweet Agnes' glance, I know, 

Makes earth a paradise below. 

No peri rising from the sea 

With dripping locks can fairer be ; 

And if the angels are more bright, 

Oh ! heaven must be a place of light. 



136 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



¥u it f Hi 

YES ; thou hast conquered, and I own 
The triumph of thy art ; 
Thou hast a trophy — thine alone — 
A broken, youthful heart. 

How happy was my life's young day ! 

No gathering cloud was there ; 
But thou hast reft its light away 

And draped it in despair. 

Earth's conquerors triumphed o'er the foe, 
Nor then the vanquished slew ; 

But thou no pity hadst to show 
To one that loved thee true. 

My heart's young love I gave to thee 

In all its guileless trust ; 
I little thought the gift would be 

But trampled in the dust. 

Too true I find the story now 

By bards of Hellas told ; 
No siren pitiless as thou 

E'er lived in times of old. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 137 

Thy smile was the " enchanted cup" 

My spirit to enthrall ; 
That smile, false one, but raised me up 

To make more deep my fall. 

Thou wert a wrecker on the shore 
Of some stern rock bound coast ; 

Thy smile was the deceitful lure 
By which my all was lost. 

O woman, look upon thy deed ! 

It may be sport to thee ; 
But, oh ! my torn affections bleed — 

? Tis worse than death to me. 

And dost thou hope for happiness 

And in the future trust? 
If heaven could that future bless, 

It were itself unjust. 

The sorrows which my heart hath felt, 

Felt by thine own shall be ; 
For as thou hast with others dealt, 

Shall it be dealt with thee. 



138 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



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The following lines were suggested to the author by a marriage, and are 
supposed to have been spoken by the bride's mother. 

THEEE is one vacant chair at home ; 
Dear Anna, it is thine ; 
Ah, me ! how dark the shadows come 
O'er this sad heart of mine. 

I miss thee at the morning hour, 

At noon and dewy eve ; 
I did not think that Fate had power 

My heart thus to bereave. 

I thought it had been schooled by woe, 

And hardened unto pain ; 
But, oh ! thy loss hath made it know 

An anguished throb again. 

They tell me thou art happy now, 

And I am glad 'tis so. 
Ah ! never o'er thy fair young brow 

May wreaths of cypress grow. 

Yes ; thou art happy — but for me, 

Alas ! I must regret 
That when Fate severed me from thee 

My star of morning set. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 139 

Thou wert to me the radiant star 

That ushered in my day ; 
And now thy footsteps are afar, 

My morning fades away. 

But, oh ! may Heaven hear my i>rayer : 

That while with me 'tis night, 
The sun of joy may brighten there 

Thy pathway with its light. 

Oh ! cease, ye warring winds, to blow ! 

And you, ye waves, be still 
And soft, as murmuring streamlet's flow, 

Nor cross her path with ill. 

And you, ye far off southern clime, 

I trust to you my flower ; 
Oh ! save her in all coming time 

From blight or wintry shower. 

Vaunt couriers of the viewless air, 

Oh ! could I send by ye 
My love, your pinions scarce could bear 

The weight o'er land and sea. 

Or could I write on southern skies 

With beams of light my love, 
'Twould be as though the morn should rise 

To gild the heavens above. 



140 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



I SAW thee ; 'twas a passing glance, 
But, oh ! that glance revealed 
The mighty sway of loveliness 
Which beauty's eye can wield. 

It seemed some vision from above 
Had flashed upon my sight ; 

Some exile from the better world, 
Still radiant with its light. 

The sculptor, when he Venus formed, 

Fresh rising from the sea, 
All glowing in her thousand charms, 

But faintly shadowed thee. 

In vain may language strive to paint 

Thy charms in colors true ; 
Thou morning star of light and love, 

Thou rosebud dipped in dew. 

Thou needest not the floweret's bloom 

To deck thy flowing hair ; 
The roses near thy blushing cheeks 

Would wither in despair. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 141 

Thine eye is like the soft beamed star, 

Which gems the evening skies, 
When o 7 er the western hills afar 

The lingering daylight dies. 

But yet there slumbers in its light 

A dread, resistless power, 
E'en such as arms the lightning's wing 

When dark the storm clouds lower. 

For mightier than the warrior's sword, 

Thy glance to wound and slay 
The sons of men ; and where it dwells 

All bend beneath its sway. 

Thy smile is like the smile of spring, 

When wintry winds depart ; 
And hath a spell like spring's bright beams, 

To melt the coldest heart. 

Nay, thou art as the spring itself, 

With flowers profusely gay ; 
The Flora of our western world, 

Wreathed in the smiles of May. 

Oh, maiden, if of earth thou art, 

Thou art in mercy given. 
To view of erring mortals here, 

To lift our thoughts to heaven. 



142 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Tbou art a signal proof, indeed, 
Of heaven's unbounded love ; 

For if such angels walk the earth, 
How bright are those above ! 



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TTTE may be happy yet, Annie, 

V V We may be happy yet ; 
Our path may be o'erstrewn with flowers, 

Ere sun of life be set. 

Though dark may be the path, Annie, 
Where now our footsteps roam, 

The clouds may pass away, Annie, 
A brighter day may come. 

It is not always night, Annie ; 

The morning sun will rise, 
To gild with glowing orient beams 

The blushing eastern skies. 

The snow upon the fields, Annie, 

Will not forever stay ; 
The stormy winds of March will bring 

The genial smiles of May. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 143 

I have a stricken heart, Annie ; 

I lay it at thy feet. 
Methinks beneath thy loving smile, 

That e'en to die were sweet. 

If only in return, Annie, 

Thou wouldst a heart bestow, 
I'd seek, I'd wish no other bliss — 

'Twould be a heaven below. 

And though we had not wealth, Annie, 

My heart would ne'er repine. 
I'd rather than the wealth of worlds, 

Possess that heart of thine. 

My heart is true to thee, Annie ; 

It thrills at every tone ; 
As thrills the trembling wind harp's strings 

O'er which the breeze hath blown. 

We're told in ancient times, Annie, 

On Actium's bloody scene, 
A Eoman lost the Caesar's throne 

To follow Egypt's queen. 

I would surpass the Eoman's deed, 

If mine the choice might be ; 
He lost an empire for his love, — 

I'd lose a world for thee. 



144 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



And if thou wilt be mine, Annie, 
'Twill cause thee no regret ; 

And ere our sands of life run out, 
We may be happy yet. 



t 



THE Spartan mother, when she sent her son 
To deadly fields, where glory might be won, 
Stern admonition to the untried brave, 
This parting lesson, with her blessing gave : 
Though overwhelmed by numbers, he should scorn 

to yield, 
And ne'er return, but with, or on, his shield ; 
That Laced aemon brooked no dastard flight, 
And victory or death was Spartan's right. 



©IX |t»|+ 

I CANNOT lie •'neath verdant grove 
And sighing call upon thy name ; 
My love is not as others' love — 
It is a soul consuming flame. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 145 

My love is not a pleasant dream 
That gently steals the senses o'er, 

And flows as soft as purling stream — 
No ; 'tis the rushing torrent's roar ! 

I cannot touch the melting lyre, 

Nor breathe my love in soft toned lute ; 

To represent its burning fire 

Such feeble instruments were mute. 

No; the wild clarion, pealing loud, 
O'er e'en the crashing thunder's roll, 

Ee-echoed from the stormy cloud, 
Can only speak my frenzied soul ! 

Oh ! if I would my passion show 

In colors true to meet thine eye, 
I'd dip my pencil in the glow 

Of lightnings gleaming through the sky. 

Whene'er my lip thy kisses greet 

They quiver through each boiling vein, 

And bring a joy so exquisite 
It almost is akin to pain. 

'Tis not in language to impart, 
No form of words can e'er reveal 

The fierce, wild tumult of my heart — 
I cannot speak — I only feel. 



146 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

But, oh ! dear one, were there a word, 
Bright as the fiery gleam that broke 

From the avenging angel's sword, 

That word for thee my love had spoke. 



THEEE is a world exceeding bright 
To poet's eye unrolled, 
Enshrined in more than solar light, 
Its glory all untold. 

For never mortal tongue may find 

Fit language to reveal 
Its splendors flashing on the mind — 

The heart can only feel. 

The sweetest strains which poets sing 

Are but faint echoes still, 
And only feeble murmurs bring 

Of its sweet music's thrill. 

To canvas vain the painter tries 

Its beauties to impart; 
Away the bright Elysium flies, 

And mocks his futile art. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. / 147 

All vainly sculptors seek to give 

In cold, material stone, 
Embodiment to things that live 

Within the soul alone. 

Some say that world of light and love 

To the poet's glance revealed, 
Is but the land of heaven above 

To other eyes concealed ; 

And through his finer walls of earth, 

Like pure translucent clay, 
Bright beams which have in heaven their birth 

Find out their glorious way. 



lu it Hfiti 

WHY don't you get married, Kate ? 
You've enough of beaux. 
Sure, of all the gallant train, 
Some one must propose. 

Why don't you get married, Kate ? 

In spite of all we hear, 
To be a true and loving wife 

Is woman's proper sphere. 



148 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Why don't you get married, Kate ? 

Tears are gliding by, 
And their flight perhaps may steal 

That brightness from thine eye. 

Time and tide for no one wait, 

You need scarce be told ; 
And ere we are well aware, 

We are growing old. 

Why don't you get married, Kate? 

For some worthy youth. 
Would be too happy could he hear 

Thy plighted vows of truth. 

Oh ! hasten, then, thou charming one, 
The happy word to speak, 

While life's young light is in thine eye, 
Its bloom upon thy cheek. 

Why don't you get married, Kate? 

I saw you but to-day, 
And, oh ! you are too sweet a flower 

Unplucked to waste away. 

The brilliant, the resplendent gem, 
Should not in darkness rest, 

But glitter in its pride of place, 
Upon some gallant crest. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 149 

And thus a maiden sweet as thou 

Should not her virtues hide 
In false styled " single blessedness/' 

But grace some true love's side. 



fa n Jatty tdfpx J>tm$bfr tl |axtmg 

AH, yes ! — I differ much from thee ; 
Our hearts are not the same, 
For thine is as the polar sea, 
And mine is one of flame. 

No quickening verdure e'er is green 

Amidst eternal snow; 
But fairest flowers and fruits are seen 

In tropic climes to grow. 

And thus the fervid heart will give 

The noblest feelings birth ; 
While none will in the cold heart live 

But grovelling ones of earth. 

Thy heart is bare as winter day, 
When bleak December lowers ; 

While mine is as the smiling May, 
With all its blooming flowers. 



150 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Warm is the fluid on battle plain, 
That fires the war steed bold ; 

But in the crawling reptile's vein, 
Alas, the blood how cold ! 

Oh, no ; I would not change with thee ; 

Methinks 'twould be as strange 
As for the eagle soaring free 

With creeping thing to change. 

To earth thy low affections cling — • 
Thou mayst be bought and sold ; 

Thou hast no love for anything, 
Except it be for gold. 

Love thee ? ISTo ! That spark divine 

Is born of kindred souls ; 
But, oh ! between thy heart and mine 

A boundless ocean rolls. 

There is a world between us two — 
Such weights of bliss or woe 

As I have felt thy heart ne'er knew — 
Indeed, it could not know. 

My heart is as a harp well strung, 
Whose quick vibrations thrill, 

By every passing impulse wrung, 
Beneath which thine were still. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 151 

But, oh ! I would not change with thee ; 

I love the mountain land, 
Though changing heights and depths there be, 

More tban Sahara's sand. 

Give me the heart where, like the deep, 

The billows often roll ; 
'Tis better than the torpid sleep, 

The dead calm of the soul. 

Thou boastest thou art passionless, — 

But, ah ! I envy not 
That blank, unmeaning nothingness ; 

Mine is a happier lot. 

Thou dost but glory in thy shame ; 

As well may Hecla's crest, 
So bleak and drear, precedence claim 

O'er Araby the blest. 

I look upon thee with disgust, 

Thou art so cold and fair ; 
I never can thy coldness trust, 

While we are what we are. 

Between our souls the hand of fate 

Will lines eternal draw ; 
Such opposites as we must hate, 

'Tis God's and nature's law. 



152 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



Jmty Jhwfy 



I LOVED thee in the earliest hour, 
Of youth's bright day, how long and well! 
Ere yet my unskilled tougue had power 
The fervor of that love to tell. 

For I was young and bashful then, 
My lips were to my heart untrue ; 

I had not learned like older men 
To speak the tender tale to you. 

I envied then each bolder one 
Who dared his weaker love declare 

With practised skill, while I alone 
Could only blush and tremble there. 

Then o'er my cheek the crimson came 

And went and left it paler still, 
While every nerve within my frame 

Was trembling like the harp -string's thrill. 

But, oh ! my love I could not speak, 
Nor pour my burning soul to thee ; 

No resolution form to break 
The spell of youthful modesty. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 153 

While others sued with flattering tongue, 
Perhaps with seeming ardor knelt ; 

For thee, so deep my soul was wrung, 
I could not speak — I only felt. 

But, oh ! could words have truly told 
The love in my young bosom stored, 

How like the deluge storm of old 
The rushing cataract had poured ! 

How many a bitter pang it cost, 
Beneath thy beaming glance to see 

The lovers who thy smiles could boast, 
But did not, could not, love like me ! 

For others might thy charms admire, 
The coldest must who near thee came ; 

My love was as a quenchless fire 

That burned with a devouring flame. 

And were the earth's great riches mine, 
The treasures of the land and sea, 

How freely would I all resign, 
And more than that great all, for thee ! 

To have seen thee by another's side, 
And heard thy whispered accents tell 

The vows that rendered thee his bride, 
To me were worse than fires of hell. 



154 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

But, oh ! to call thee all mine own, 
(Time hath no great a joy as this), 

To know thy heart is mine alone 
Is an eternity of bliss. 

Oh ! Clara, couldst thou but have known 
My heart's deep yearning in past years, 

It would have stifled many a groan, 
And checked how many bitter tears ! 

For thou couldst not beneath thy feet 
Let my young heart neglected lie, 

But wouldst have washed, with kisses sweet, 
The burning heart drops from mine eye. 

For Clara, 'twas not thine to feel 
How warm for thee my heart could burn, 

And yet thine own in hardness steel 
One moment 'gainst a like return. 

That agonizing time is past, 

And vain is now each fond regret j 

Thou know'st I love thee well at last. 
Thank God ! we may be happy yet. 

I gave to thee a fresh young heart, 
Thou hadst its every fond desire ; 

No other therein had a part — 
It was a holocaust entire. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 155 



And though thy youthful days are o'er, 
And shadows on thy brow I see ; 

I love thee as in days of yore — 
Thou still art beautiful to me. 

They talk in vain of love's decay. 

In hearts that love in deed and truth ; 

As years revolving roll away, 

They sanction the decree of youth. 

For love is light itself from heaven, 
It reigns in angel breasts on high ; 

To it immortal life is given — 
It will not, may not, cannot die. 

Imperishable as the rock 

That meets the dash of ocean's wave ; 
Secure, the storms of time 'twill mock, 

And live beyond the closing grave. 

Aye, live and flourish as in youth, 
While endless ages onward roll, 

Eternal as the laws of truth, 

And deathless as the human soul. 



156 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



FAEEWELL ! a lasting, long farewell ! 
A whisper in my heart, 
With voice but too prophetic tells, 
We part — forever part. 

'Tis true we oft may meet again, 

Ere life with us be o'er ; 
May meet, — but, oh ! we cannot meet 

As we have met before. 

We may, perhaps, each other greet 

In cold and altered tone, 
And pass, as chilling icebergs pass, 

In some far northern zone. 

For, oh ! our hearts are sundered now — 

An ocean rolls between ; 
We ne'er can to each other be 

What in the past we've been. 

To mend the broken, precious gem, 

Alas, the task were vain ; 
And thus our rudely severed hearts 

Can ne'er unite again. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 157 

We part in sorrow, not in wrath ; 

The memories of years 
End like the rainbow's fading hues. 

In darkness, but in tears. 

We part ! but ere the last farewell, 

I breathe a prayer for thee : 
May thine be every joy on earth, 

Although not shared with me. 

Nay, since by fate's severe decree, 

Grief e'er must bliss alloy, 
Would I could bear with me the pain, 

And leave with thee the joy. 



I LIVE within the past alone, 
For youth with me hath fled ; 
And youthful hopes and youthful joys 
Are in my bosom dead. 

And there they lie, like withered flowers, 

But still their memory there 
Is like the rosebud's dying leaves, 

Whose death perfumes the air. 



158 TEE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Although the clouds of dark despair 
Are gathering in their wrath 

Above my head ; yet once there shone 
The sunlight on my path. 

Thank God, I have been happy once, 
Though all is blighted now ; 

There once was rapture in my heart, 
And calmness on my brow. 

My life is in the yellow leaf, 
And frosts of age now bring 

A desolation o'er my year, 
Yet I have seen my spring. 

The darkened, leaden skies may frown, 
And death may ride the blast ; 

But, oh ! they can't blot from my soul 
The memory of the past. 

Pale autumn is upon me now, 
The hopes of spring are gone ; 

And summer's joys have perished too, 
Yet memory lives on. 

Aye ! lives amid my life's decay, 

Undying in its bloom ; 
Fresh as the fadeless cypress wreath, 

Whose verdure decks the tomb. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 159 



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THE spirit land, the spirit land ! 
I often wonder where 
May spread that dim and shadowy strand, 
What scenes shall greet as there ! 

Is it within yon glorious sun, 

Or in some distant star, 
Such as we sometimes gaze upon 

With optic tube afar ? 

And is that world a world like ours, 

Of changing night and day; 
Where stars at night and beauteous flowers 

At morn their charms display? 

And shall we know each other there, 

And talk of scenes below ; 
Of life's alternate joy and care ? 

Alas ! we may not know. 

We should not there as strangers be, 

If we might recognize 
Those who have passed o'er death's dark sea, 

To havens in the skies. 



160 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

For, oh ! who has not felt the grief. 

The void within the heart, 
The sorrow that knows no relief 

When called from friends to part ; 

The desolation and the woe 
That overspread earth's scene 

When ties are severed, and we know 
Death's billows roll between ! 

But, oh ! there is a blessed hope 
To faith's discernment given, 

Which has a potent spell to ope 
The very gate of heaven ; 

Which can disclose a world of love, 

Fairer than eye hath seen ; 
Whose charms, all earthly charms above, 

Have unimagined been ! 

And in that land of love and light, 

Above yon crystal sphere, 
Clothed in eternal radiance bright, 

The lost may reappear. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 161 



O JENNY ! though thou art so fair, 
Thou'rt not the girl for me ; 
Thy hollow and coquettish smiles 
With heart unmoved I see. 

The glow that lights the northern skies 

On some December night, 
Hath but a cold, ungenial beam, 

Though beautiful and bright. 

In vain you deck your face with smiles, 
And all your charms unfold ; 

They're like those arctic meteors bright, 
So lovely, yet so cold. 

I care not for thy grace of art, 
Or bright eyes' melting roll ; 

Alas ! they all are meaningless, 
They come not from the soul. 

The heart will answer back to heart, 
And she who love would gain, 

A heart must give for one received, 
Or all her art is vain. 



162 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



TEN years ago ! ten years ago ! 
What changes have since then 
Swept over all things here below — 
O'er women and o'er men ! 

The little girls that lisped so sweet 

Are now to maidens grown ; 
In charms of womanhood complete, 

E'en as a rose full blown. 

And boys have grown to manhood's size, 

And feel the piercing darts 
That wing their way from maidens' eyes, 

And quiver in their hearts. 

The silver locks are whitening, too, 

On many a manly brow ; 
And gathering wrinkles, sad to view, 

Make their appearance now. 

And, oh ! full many a gap is made 

In every circle here ; 
For low within their graves are laid 

The friends we loved so dear. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 163 

Ten years ago ! what smiles aud tears 

Within that time have been ; 
What dawning hopes, what darkening fears, 

Swept o'er the checkered scene ! 

Ten years ago ! it seems an age. 

When we the past survey ; 
A toilsome, weary pilgrimage 

Along a lengthened way. 

The storm of war hath ruthless swept, 

And marked its path with woe ; 
Brave men have died, and women wept, 

Since 'twas ten years ago. 

And Heaven in its mercy grant, 

We ne'er again may know, 
Such scenes of death, of woe, and want, 

As since ten years ago ! 



lip ©rjdjpm Jpaj* 

THE FOLLOWING LINES NARRATE A TRUE INCIDENT. 

THE way was long, intense the heat — 
There came unto my door 
A wandering child with weary feet, 
Dust stained and travel sore. 



164 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

His eye was sad, his cheek was pale. 

And toil and hunger there, 
And summer heat and wintry gale 

Had seamed it deep with care. 

His mother long had passed away 

Into her dark, cold tomb ; 
His father, in the bloody fray, 

Had met a soldier's doom. 

He was on earth alone — alone ; 

On him no parents smiled. 
The joy and light of home had flown — 

O God, and he a child ! 

Oh, cast that shadow from thy brow! 

Here let thy sorrows end ; 
Thy time of grief hath passed, and now, 

Poor child, thou hast a friend ! 

My God, I thank thee from my heart, 
That Thou hast sent him here ; 

That I may bid his grief depart, 
And his young bosom cheer. 

Dear child, thou dost not here intrude; 

Oh, welcome mayst thou stay. 
I dare not turn thee, if I would, 

In emptiness away. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 165 



My little store of daily bread 
Fll freely share with thee; 

I well remember who hath said. 
You've done it unto me. 

I'll shelter thee, poor stricken dove, 
And bind thy broken wing ; 

And God, who is a God of love, 
Will health and healing bring. 



OH, if there were no sorrows here, 
And men might never grieve, 
This world of ours would then appear 
Too beautiful to leave ! 

And even now 'tis hard to die, 

And sever all the ties 
Which bind us to the scenes that lie 

Beneath our earthly skies ! 

But if those skies were ever bright, 
And if no clouds were there, 

The shades of death would bring a night 
Too dark for men to bear ! 



166 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



'Tis only when from earthly good, 

The panting soul is riven, 
And clouds of sorrow o'er them brood, 

That men will look to heaven ! 



Jljtttajdjj xttt intern Bmmijaj* 

WITH glowing eye of fire and heart of flame, 
From Southern climes a youthful soldier 
came, 
And fearless waved his raven plume in pride, 
Where daring Mosby stemmed the battle's tide, 
Nor hoped in vain, in never fading light, 
To trace his name in glory's temple bright; 
But like the meteor, flashing through the sphere, 
Too soon in death was closed his young career ; 
Too soon his life, like that bright gleam was o'er, 
And sank in darkness to arise no more ; 
Heart stricken maidens scattered o'er his tomb 
Entwining wreaths of fairest flow'rets' bloom, 
And sorrowing, to his corpse Virginia gave — 
Alas ! 'twas all she had to give— .a grave ! 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 167 



HE did not say he loved, mamma; 
He had no need to tell — 
For there are many signs, mamma, 
That speak the tale as well. 

Ah ! there are many signs, mamma, 

Which lovers understand — 
The modulation of a tone, 

The pressure of a hand. 

The gentle heaving of the breast, 

The breathing of a sigh, 
The tremor running through the frame 

When one we love is nigh. 

The blush that, with the rose's hue, 
Bepaints the youthful cheek, — 

Far more significant than words 
That tell tale blush can speak. 

I caught his glance last night, mamma, — 

It told me all his love ; 
? Twas soft as summer evening's smile 

When skies are bright above. 



168 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



The secret is disclosed, mainma, 
I've nothing more to learn ; 

And, ah ! I feel that well he knows 
I love him in return. 



Supposed to have been written at the tomb of Sir Walter Scott, in 
Dryburgh Abbey. Respectfully inscribed to the Rev. John S. Lindsay, by 
the author. 

SLEEP ! mighty Wizard of the North, 
Beneath this old and sacred pile ; 
Where dark robed spectres sally forth, 
And silent sweep each pillared aisle. 

Oh, fitting is thy resting place, 
Amid those abbeyed ruins gray ; 

Thou who, with truth's own torch, could trace 
Old men and manners passed away. 

Thou callest them from time's dark womb, 
Like spirits from the vasty deep ; 

And it is well that in the tomb 
Thy mortal part with them should sleep. 



JAMES DEE UTTER BLACK WELL. 169 

And if thy dreams within the grave 
Should like thy living visions be, 

How will the beautiful and brave 
In glorious throngs encompass thee ! 

And thou wouldst be a monarch still, 
Greater than ever graced a throne ; 

Obedient spirits at thy will, 
And all of Fancy's realms thine own. 

Sleep, mighty Wizard ! on the stone 
Beneath which thy cold form is laid, 

A stranger's hand a wreath hath thrown, 
Whose flowers, alas ! too soon must fade. 

But, oh ! there is around thy brow 
A wreath that shall not know decay ; 

Whose flowers are freshly blooming now, 
And shall be to earth's latest day. 



I SEE him stand upon the shore, 
Near by old Ocean's wave ; 
And that tempestuous water's roar 
To him its spirit gave. 



170 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



For in the depths of that young breast 
Eaged storms more fierce by far 

Than the wild bickering unrest 
Of elemental war. 

The lightning's dread and blinding stream, 

That flashed in flame on high, 
Was scarce more fiery than the gleam 

Of his bright kindling eye. 

And e'en the thunder's deafening roll, 
That pealed the concave through, 

Had not more power to shake the soul 
Than what his fancy drew. 

He was the spirit of the deep, 

Enshrined in human form, 
When o'er its billows wildly sweep 

The pinions of the storm. 

And, lo ! about his brow arrayed, 

Prophetic light was shed ; 
Bright as the lambent flame that played 

Around young Tarquin's head. 

And o'er his form in glory shone 

Its radiance flashing free, 
The token of the mighty one 

That he was yet to be. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 171 

And he was mightier than a king 

(For kingdoms pass away) ; 
But strains sublime, which poets sing, 

Eeverberate alway. 

Immortal as the deathless mind 

That gave their music birth, 
They ever will remain behind, 

A glory on the earth. 

And o'er the destiny of men 

Their potent spell they'll throw, 
Until the awful moment when 

Time's stream shall cease to flow. 

Yea, when the elements shall melt, 
And ruin on the earth be hurled, 

Their deathless influence shall be felt 
In the eternal world. 



I GAZE on that majestic brow, 
Though carved in marble cold ; 
Yet there the record of thy life 
The artist's skill hath told. 



172 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

I see in every furrow there 
That careful thought hath seamed, 

The revelation of a power 
Of which men scarcely dreamed. 

A power that as an eagle wing 

The vast orb circled round. 
That higher rose than eagle's flight, 

And dived in depths profound ; 

That roamed at will from star to star, 

In its untiring flight, 
And tracked the wandering comet through 

The pathless realms of night. 

Then dived beneath the land and sea, 
And all that's there concealed ; 

The buried treasures of their depths 
To mortal gaze revealed. 

Nor mental might alone we see ! 

The sculptor's skilful art 
Hath by its magic touch portrayed 

The goodness of thy heart. 

And as I gaze on that pale brow, 
And these cold features scan, 

The marble seems to melt to flesh — 
I see the friend of man ! 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 173 

Oh ! well befitting is the theme — 

It owns the tribute due ; 
And shows the old world's worth receives 

The homage of the new ; 

That here the young Virginian's hand. 

Far o'er the Atlantic wave, 
Hath a memorial reared, which, like 

Thy fame, defies the grave. 



RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO PROFESSOR HILDERBRAND'S CLASS. 

THE voice of music floats in air — 
How sweet its murmurs fall ! 
And all is gay and happy there 
Within that festooned hall. 

And youthful hearts are there to-night, 

That beat with rapture wild ; 
And youthful eyes that glance as bright 

As e'er on earth have smiled. 

And that sweet music which we hear 

In melting murmurs roll 
Is but the reflex, echoed clear, 

Of music in the soul. 



174 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

For Hope bath strung his harp within 
Each young and happy breast, 

As yet unmarked by stain of sin, 
And sings — an angel guest. 

Young maidens, would that coming years 

Might ever be as now ; 
Each eye undimmed by gathering tears, 

Unclouded every brow. 

Ah, no ! I feel that wish were vain 5 

It may not, cannot be 5 
From toil, and care, and grief, and pain, 

No lot on earth is free. 

But yet, in distant years to come, 
When darkening sorrows throw 

Their shadows o'er you as ye roam 
This wilderness of woe, 

The memory of this happy night 

Will brightly beam afar, 
As trembles through eve's shades the light 

Of yon sweet beaming star. 

Oh, God of heaven ! hear our prayer ; 

From dire misfortune's darts, 
That pierce the soul with wild despair, 

Oh, shield these dear young hearts! 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 175 

And, oh ! when 'neath the willow bough, 

Dust unto dust is given, 
May they far happier be than now, 

In yon bright world of heaven. 



% IMbtfy to flp 

AS the odor remains when the flower hath 
perished, 
And twilight still lasts through the eve's murky 
gloom, 
In our hearts shall the love of the lost one be 
cherished, 
Though lowly he lies in the deep, narrow tomb. 

We'll think of him oft midst the stillness of even, 
And oft to fond inem'ry his image recall, 

While softly and sad, as the dew drops of heaven, 
Our tears on his grave shall mournfully fall. 

We saw him depart ; his bright eyes were beaming ; 

With the fervor of hope his young spirit was warm ; 
He returned — our own were with bitterness streaming, 

For the shroud and the coffin were around his cold 
form. 



176 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

In sorrow we followed the hearse as it bore him 
To the silent abode where all living shall dwell ; 

And with deep breathing sighs, as the earth crumbled 
o'er him, 
We murmured a low, a heart breaking farewell. 

But calm be his rest in the grave where he's sleep- 
ing, 

And soft be his slumbers beneath the green sod ; 
For a whisper is heard in the midst of our weeping 

That tells of a hope in the mercy of God. 

With the gloom of our woe, in pity there's blending 
A soul cheering ray of celestial born light ; 

And Bethlehem's star in its glory ascending 

Breaks forth with sweet beams on the depth of our 
night. 

Lo ! hope, as the light of the morning that glances, 
Brings to our wrung bosoms a balmy relief; 

And time, with its changes as it onward advances, 
Shall hallow his memory while it mellows our 
grief. 



JAMES DER UTTER BLACK WELL. 177 



Jmm tat JL \+ Sdfemmt 

STOP as ye pass this early grave — 
The spot demands a tear ; 
For, oh ! the young, the true, the brave, 
Is calmly sleeping here. 

Well may the heart's deep fountains flow 

O'er the untimely dead ; 
No nobler heart e'er beat below 

Than bis whose spirit's fled. 

Unsullied as the morning's skies, 
When breathes sweet summer's breath ; 

All pale and cold in death he lies, 
Yet beautiful in death. 

He sleeps in calmness 'neath the sod, 

No stain upon his name ; 
His spirit pure returned to God, 

From whom at first it came. 

And as the flow'ret of the field, 

Which perished in its bloom, 
His memory to our hearts shall yield 

Fore'er its sweet perfume. 



178 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

We saw him in his early shroud, — 
And, oh ! what words can tell 

The agonizing griefs which crowd 
In that last, wild farewell ! 

But though we mourn the one we love, 

Perhaps 'tis better so ; 
There is a brighter world above 

Than this dark vale of woe. 

'Tis better that the morning wreath 
Of cloud should fade away ; 

Than gather from earth's soiling breath 
The stain of later day. 

And thus it may far better be 
The youug should early die, 

And pass in youthful purity 
Unsullied to the sky. 






RELIGION, 'tis a balm and treasure, 
The purchase of a Saviour's love! 
It fills the mind with constant pleasure, 
It lifts the thoughts to things above ! 



JAMES DEB UTTER BLACK WELL. 179 

It calms each fear, it soothes each sorrow, 
It smooths our path o'er life's rough sea, 

And brightly gilds the grave's to-morrow . 
With joys that may not uttered be. 

It pours the oil of consolation 

Into the sorrow stricken soul, 
And lifts in holy adoration 

The heart above the earth's control. 

The precious love of Christ revealing, 

It brings a solace to each woe, 
And rises with its wings of healing 

To soothe each grief that man may know. 

'Tis manna to the fainting spirit 
And living streams of Eliin's shade; # 

It throws a Saviour's dying merit 

O'er every wound that sin hath made. 

Its grace, unbought, is freely given 

To every contrite sinner's praj^er; 
It opens wide the gate of heaven, 

That all who will may enter there. 

Its life reviving boon bestowing, 

Omnipotent from death to save, 
To each, to all, its streams are flowing, 

Exhaustless as the ocean's wave. 

* See Exodus. 



180 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

When over death's dark rolling river 
The spirit wings its awful flight, 

It bids us mark where live forever 
Immortal saints, in glory bright. 

In holy confidence unfearing, 
Above the wild tempestuous tide, 

The soul on its strong pinions bearing, 
'Twill land us safe on Canaan's side. 

And, oh! the blessed thought consoling, 

Enduring as eternity, — 
While ages endless on are rolling, 

This heavenly portion mine shall be. 



9anj at lip fipm* 

SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING OF MURILLO. 

SHE stands beneath the cursed tree, 
And tear drops dim her eye, 
For there hangs one she thought to be 
The lord of earth and sky. 

She'd seen at his divine command 
The dead come from the grave; 

The blind ones see, the crippled stand— 
Himself he cannot save. 



JAMES DERTJYTER BLAGKWELL. 181 

Alas ! for Israel's failing hope 

Encompassed round with woes ; 
She sees him with no power to ope 

A pathway through his foes. 

Where are the angel legions now, 

Which ever guard the good, 
While that divine, yet anguished brow, 

Is bathed in sweat and blood? 

Oh ! is it that the powers of hell 
And death have triumphed there, 

And o'er the future cast the spell 
Of blackness and despair ? 

It must be so ; yon darkened sky, 

With an unearthly night, 
Spreads o'er all nature from on high 

A dark, a fearful blight. 

No, woman, no ! hell hath not won ; 

It is not finished yet — 
For bright will rise to-morrow's sun, 

Although in clouds it set. 

Lo ! that same Jesus, whom ye see 

In blood and agonies, 
Shall burst death's iron bands, and be 

Yet lord of earth and skies. 



182 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

And ye shall see him come again 
When heaven's wide vaultfshall ring, 

And " Worthy is the Lamb that's slain P 
Seraphic hosts shall sing. 

And, lo ! the darkness which hath sealed 
The heavens in dismal gloom 

Shall flee, and morning be revealed 
More bright than Eden's bloom. 

He died 5 but, mighty in his death, 

His foes to ruin hurled ; 
The utterance of his dying breath 

Proclaimed a rescued world. 

'Tis finished ; and that cross they thought 

The emblem of his shame, 
Unto a ruined race hath brought 

Salvation through his name. 



HAEK to the mourner's plaintive wail ! 
In melancholy flow, 
It loads Judea's passing gale 
With utterance of woe. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 183 



Two sorrowing sisters there have wept 

A brother's early doom ; 
Who for three days and nights hath slept 

Within his rock-hewn tomb. 

But, sisters, wipe your weeping eyes ! 

For, lo ! your gloom to cheer, 
The morning star of hope doth rise ! 

Your master's step is near ! 

The master came : the sisters fell 

All prostrate at his feet; 
Their sobbing accents scarce could tell 

Their grief. But, oh ! how sweet 

To pour the voice of their complaint 

Into that willing ear ! 
Which ne'er the voice of grief so faint, 

But what it lean'd to hear. 

" Oh! master, hadst thou but been here," 

The weeping Mary cried, 
" Our mournful state far different were — 

Our brother had not died !" 

And see, the Lord of glory weeps ! 

The tears each other chase 
Adown his cheek. Where Lazarus sleeps 

He bids them show the place. 



184 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

He bids them roll away the stone ; 

He calleth unto him ; 
Lo! life's reviving light hath shone 

Within that eye so dim ! 

Eeturning color gilds his cheek 
With health's vermilion dye ; 

Like to the roseate tints that streak 
At morn the orient sky. 

Once more the purj>le current breaks 

Afresh, with sudden start, 
And by its quickened tide, awakes 

The beating of that heart. 

He bursteth from his caverned rest ; 

Death's bonds are rent in twain ; 
The breath convulsive heaves his breast, 

And Lazarus lives again ! 

A second time the Lord shall call. 
And life his voice shall give 

To ail within their graves; and all 
Again on earth shall live. 

Lord ! when that dreadful day we see, 
When thou shalt death destroy, 

May ours a resurrection be 
Unto eternal joy ! 



JAMES DERUTTER BLACK WELL. 185 



W}t l(uromt uf jS nmnixn* 

SUGGESTED BY A BUST. 

A STRANGER by Samaria's well 
Eested his toil-worn feet, 
Where dense on Sychar's vale there fell 
The beams of noontide heat. 

He seemed but some wayfaring man 

To passing stranger's view ; 
For none would pause the face to scan 

Of the unfriendly Jew. 

They did not see upon that brow 

Engraved the majesty 
Of him to whom as present now, 

Was all that was to be. 

They did not recognize in him 
Whose feet that highway trod, 

The One to whom the seraphim 
Bowed even as to God. 

And when from old Samaria's gate 
That heedless woman came, 

He was to her, as there he sat, 
One all unknown to fame. 



186 TEE POETICAL WORKS OF 

He asked her for a simple draught 

To cool him in his rest ; 
And, lo ! that thoughtless woman laughed 

At e'en the small request. 

It seemed to her a thing so strange, 

A thing entirely new, 
That words with her he should exchange, 

And he a hated Jew. 

But greater wonder filled her heart, 
Which might not be controlled, 

As she beheld with sudden start 
Her guilty life unrolled. 

Each secret sin she thought concealed, 

By lapse of gliding years, 
Was by that wondrous voice revealed, 

And all the past appears ! 

She turned aside her head in shame, 
And downcast was her eye; 

But, lo ! what healing words there came, 
Like light o'er morning sky ! 

Hope dawned amidst her darkest woe 
With beams divinely sweet ; 

It was as though she heard the flow 
Of streams 'mid summer's heat. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 187 

Those words — they told of dying love, 

Of cancelled sin's release j 
The first faint whispers from above 

Of pardon and of peace ! 

They told her of those living streams 

Whose waters heal the soul ; 
Whose draught with heavenly potence teems 

To make the wounded whole. 

And, oh ! those streams are flowing still, 

Which life eternal give 
Unbought, and whosoever will 

May drink of them and live ! 



WHAT meaneth yon collected crowd, 
That surging human tide, 
That darkly rests, like tempest cloud, 
Upon Golgotha's side ? 

And who, on the accursed wood, 

Is lifeless hanging now ? 
Methinks, although 'tis stained with blood, 

He wears a god like brow. 



188 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Yes ; it is God's anointed One, 

The promised Shiloli sent ; 
The princely heir of David's throne, 

Where God and man were blent. 

He came, as it was long foretold 

By holy prophet's word ; 
But Israel, faithless as of old, 

Have crucified their Lord. 

And they who sat in Moses' seat 

Mocked in their unbelief; 
But, oh ! to one the tale how sweet — 

That one the dying thief. 

That tale \ it told of answered prayer — 

It told of sins forgiven — 
'Twas as the light rekindled there 

Upon the darkened heaven. 

While mitred priests denied their Lord, 
And spurned his meek control, 

That dying thief believed his word — 
His faith hath made him whole. 

The pains of death ! he feels them not— 

Its sternest agonies 
Are, as a fleeting dream, forgot 

In view of paradise. 






JAMES DERUYTEE BLACKWELL. 189 

The sinkiog sun hath sunk to rest, 

The agony is o'er ; 
And in that thief's repentant breast 

Eeigns joy forever more. 

But through eternity's long day 

He never can forget, 
When Jesus spoke his sins away, 

Ere that last sun had set. 



OH ! if religion were untrue, 
How dark would be our world ! 
With black despair to close the view, 
And hope in ruins hurled. 

Our life is but a point of time, 
How deep surcharged with woe ? 

We bear it, while the truth sublime 
A better life can show. 

But prove our hopes of heaven vain, 
How drear the fate of man, 

If we may never live again 
When closed is life's short span ! 



190 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Our life would but a mockery seem, 

Forever closed in death, 
Sheer vanity's delusive dream, 

That ended with our breath. 

Go, bid the breezes cease to blow, 
The waters cease to play ; 

But rend not in this world of woe 
Our hopes of heaven away. 

Go, strike the sunlight from the sky, 
And wrap the earth in gloom ; 

But tell us not, when mortals die, 
There's naught beyond the tomb ; 

For then, indeed, would be a night 
Which not one star could show, 

To cheer us with its heaven born light, 
While wandering here below. 



tt fflotnmatm 



SHE sleeps in beauty as the flower ; 
Death's shadows on her rest 
Soft as the tears of April's shower 
Upon that flow'ret's breast. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 191 

She sleeps in beauty as the stream 

Beneath the moon's pale light, 
Untroubled as the quiet dream 

Of cloudless summer night. 

She sleeps in beauty as the star 

Sleeps on the placid wave, 
When rests upon the deep afar 

The stillness of the grave. 

She sleeps in beauty as the lake 

In Alpine valley deep, 
When not the faintest breeze may break 

The quiet of its sleep. 

She sleeps as sleeps the zephyr's breath 

On some calm summer even; 
She sleeps the lasting sleep of death ; 

She sleeps and dreams of heaven. 

It is a blest, a heavenly sleep, 

That gathers o'er her brow ; 
Then why should the survivors weep 

When she is happy now ? 

She feels no more of earth's distress, 

No more its griefs or fears ; 
Such sleep may call for thankfulness — 

It hath no need of tears. 



192 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



>]p jl m tdj fmtfy 



THERE is a strong, a mighty tide, 
That rolled in ages gone ; 
And men have lived, and men have died, 
And still that tide flows on. 

It passes over dead men's graves 

In its resistless sweep ; 
And far beneath its mountain waves 

Are buried cities deep. 

That sea hath many a changing shore — 

For mighty empires rear 
Their heads above its surging roar, 

Then darkly disappear. 

Awhile upon its wave they rest, 

Like visions of the night, 
Then sink in its ingulfing breast 

And vanish from the sight. 

Yea, all things which the past hath known, 

And all which yet may be, 
Are clasped in the embracing zone 

Of that all circling sea. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 193 

And far around the eye may scau 

Its mighty watery world, 
As when upon primeval man 

The wrath of God was hurled. 

Oh, mortals ! if the name ye ? d know 

Of that dread sea sublime. 
Whose waves, unchecked, forever flow, — 

It is the Sea of Time. 

Its source was when the stars and sun, 

And earth began to be ; 
Its end, when years shall cease to run 

To dread eternity. 



MISEEEEE, miserere ; 
I hear its plaintive flow, 
Like the sigh of autumn through the trees, 
In murmurs soft and low. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
It steals the temple through, 

And rises in the swelling dome 
Like mist from morning dew. 



194 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Miserere, miserere ; 
Its solemn warbled strain, 

The utterance of a breaking heart 
That yet may not complain. 

Miserere, miserere; 
Its burdened, hearse like air, 

So like the last faint sigh of hope 
When yielding to despair. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
7 Tis like the mother's mourn 

Above the cold and lifeless form 
Of one whom she hath borne. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
? Tis e'en as if the wail 

Of wretched souls fore'er undone 
Was moaning in the gale. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
To thee, the Crucified, 

We turn for pardon and for peace : 
We have no hope beside. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
O Son of God ! we plead 

Thou wilt not quench the smouldering flame 
Or break the bruised reed. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 195 



Miserere, miserere ; 
Thou man of grief, forgive ; 

Strike from our souls the bonds of guilt 
And bid our spirits live. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
Oh ! let our mournful prayer 

Pierce through thy tender ear of love 
And save us from despair. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
Thou, mother of our God, 

Oh ! bid thy Son his wrath restrain 
And spare the lifted rod. 

Miserere, miserere ; 
Oh ! holy virgin mild, 

Look down, like yon peace beaming star, 
On each repentant child. 

Miserere, miserere; 
Thou seest our bosoms bleed ; 

Thyself of stainless soul, — oh ! hear, 
And for us intercede. 



196 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



' ' T O ! there the soldier, rapid architect ! 

-L^ Builds his light town of canvas, and at once 
The whole scene moves and bustles momently 
With arms and neighing steeds, and mirth and 

quarrel 
The motley market fills ; the roads, the streams 
Are crowded with new freight ; trade stirs and 

hurries ! 
But on some morrow morn, all suddenly, 
The tents drop down, the horde renews its march." 

— Schiller's Piccolomini. 



The place is solitary now — 

A holy stillness reigns ; 
Save that upon yon greenwood bough 

The mourniug dove complains. 

Here sweetest flow'rets have their birth, 

And woo the zephyr's kiss ; 
And if there is a spot on earth 

Where quiet broods, 'tis this. 



JAMES DEBUYTER BLACKWELL. 197 



But though such stillness reigns around, 

And peace sighs in the gale, 
Observe yon little rising mound ; 

It tells a different tale. 

It tells that here hath war passed by, 

That here its bugles blew, 
And here against the morning sky 

Its streaming banners flew. 

That here beneath the forest shade 

The burnished steel was seen, 
Where flashed the warrior's trenchant blade, 

'Mid the embowering green. 

The grove — it was a city then — 

And every field around 
Seemed as if crops of armed men 

Were springing from the ground. 

Nor yet hath Persia's hosts of war, 

Nor Eome's imperial pride, 
Poured o'er the nations from afar 

A mightier battle tide. 

Nor Cannae nor Pharsalia's field, 

Eenowned in days of yore, 
Could horrors more prolific yield 

Than witnessed on our shore. 



198 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

That mighty tide of war hath rolled 
On like the ocean's wave ; 

And many a stalwart warrior bold 
Hath found a bloody grave. 

And here, within this quiet scene, 
The fancy scarce may deem 

That once a mighty host hath been — 
It seems a fearful dream. 



It seems a vision of the night 

Had darkly rested here, 
Doomed with the morn's returning light 

In air to disappear. 



\ 



The vision now hath passed away, 
It meets the gaze no more ; 

And all around doth peace display 
Its charms, and war is o'er. 

No more we hear its wild alarms ; 

And that dread army vast 
Hath gone, like Xerxes' world in arms, 

To mingle with the past. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 199 



WE have not fallen, though our sun 
Hath darkly set in blood, 
And o'er us dire misfortune rolled 
Its waters as a flood. 

The soul that to itself is true 

Will stand erect, sublime, 
And bid defiance to the might 

Of chance, and change, and time. 

The ocean wave, whose swelling surge 
Breaks on the rock's rude base, 

Eolls back defeated from the shock, 
Nor leaves the faintest trace. 

The fierce, wild onslaught will but prove 

That rock's foundation sure, 
And that its stern, unyielding strength 

Is mighty to endure. 

Thus sorrow tries the soul of man ; 

And scenes of deep distress 
Are but the means whereby we know 

Its innate mightiness. 



200 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

God rules the world in wisdom still, 
And right shall yet prevail ; 

Its final triumph is secure, 
Or God's own truth must fail. 

The sun may set in clouds at eve, 
But darkness shall not last ; 

And morning's sun will shine more bright 
E'en for the night that's past. 



I HAD a vision of two lovely things, 
Of different aspect were they ; and yet each 
Was beautiful — surpassing beautiful ! 

The one was as Aurora, when she comes 
Clad in the light of morning ; and her robe 
Was glittering with the sparkling, early dew. 
Flowers sprung beneath her footsteps, and her brow 
Was wreathed as with the rainbow. And there was 
A radiant glory round her, such as oft 
The limner's art throws round some saintly head — 
Bright as the orient skies lit up at dawn. 



JAMES DERUTTER BLAGKWELL. 201 

The freshening breeze played through her flowing 

locks 
And sported round her roseate tinted cheeks 
As if its pinions loved to linger there, 
Like butterflies around the fragrance sweet 
Of incense breathing flowers. 

The other form 
Was of a chastened beauty — e'en such 
As is the evening star at twilight hour ; 
Soft as the shadow of a summer cloud 
Upon the ripening fields. The stars of night 
Were strewn upon her vesture, and the moon, 
Not in its full orbed round of rays complete, 
But in the crescent wane we sometimes see, 
Beaming like angel's sickle in the sky, 
Was worn in meekness round her pallid brow. 

The one was full of promise, life and hope ; 

The other, an emblem of that quietude 

With which the good man sinks into the grave. 



THERE is a shadow on my heart 
The world may never see, 
Whose darkening folds will not depart 
Till life shall cease to be. 



202 TEE POETICAL WORKS OF 

I wander through the busy crowd. 

And many pass me there. 
Beholding not the inward cloud 

That blackens with despair. 

Men look upon the whitened tomb — 

? Tis fair to outward show 
And beautiful. But, oh ! the gloom 

Deep in the vault below ! 

And thus the brow may calmness wear, 

Nor yet the eye reveal 
The inward, deep, untold despair 

That calmness would conceal. 

Back, tears unwonted, to your cell, 

At reason's stern control ; 
Your welling may not rise to tell 

The iron in the soul. 

Back, tell tale messengers, again 

Unto your charnel deep ; 
And there alone, in darkness reign, 

And all unheeded, Aveep. 

Oh ! why from others seek relief, 

Or make complaining moan ? 
The heedless world would mock thy grief- 
Break, aching heart, alone. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 203 

Yes, men would only jeer at thee, 

And deem thine fancied woe, 
And breathe no sign of sympathy 

For grief they cannot know. 

But, oh ! it is not fancied woe — 

'Tis but too real gloom, 
That o'er my path through life must throw 

The shadows of the tomb. 



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GIVE me music — for my soul 
Is shaded with a cloud of grief; 
Storms of sorrow o'er me roll, 
And only music gives relief. 

My sky is covered o'er with gloom, 
No sun nor star doth there appear j 

And darkly o'er my pathway loom 
The shadows of the sepulchre. 

Give me music — let its strain 
Fall on my ear in measures sweet, 

Like to the blest, reviving rain, 
On arid plain mid summer's heat. 



204 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Give me music — it can charm 

Away the spectre of despair ; 
The demon in the soul disarm, 

Which else would reign in darkness there. 

Give me music — it can lend 
To deepest gloom a hope lit ray ; 

'Twill break the bands of grief, and send 
The soul rejoicing on its way. 

Give me music — let it thrill 

In melting murmurs through my breast, 
Soft as the dews of eve distil 

On earth, when sinks the sun to rest. 



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OH ! chide not sorrow, though 'tis hard 
Its chastening to endure; 
For ? tis a means God oft employs 
To make the spirit pure. 

So deep upon the soul of man 

Hath sin iufixed its stain, 
That to erase it thence, the nerves 

Must quiver with the pain. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 205 

Oh ! were the heavens above to show 

Alone a cloudless sky, 
The fairest flowers that ever bloomed 

Would wither, droop and die. 

And thus the wayward human heart 

Must have its griefs and fears ; 
Its brightest virtues only spring 

When watered by our tears. 

For where were human sympathy, 

If we could never know, 
By our experience, what it were 

To drain the cup of woe ? 

And were there naught but happy smiles 

And gladness on the earth, 
Each blessed deed of charity 

Would perish ere its birth. 

Did all the courses of our lives 

In oily smoothness run, 
'Twere scarce submission to the Lord 

To say, " Thy will be done." 

And where were then the manly will 

To struggle 'gainst the tide, 
If without help of sail or oar 

The ship the waves could ride ? 



206 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Oh ! were it not that shades of eve 
Have dimmed the concave blue, 

We ne'er had known those worlds of light 
Which night reveals to view. 

The dread expanse above had been 

A thought un travelled sea ; 
Unknown those mighty flaming orbs 

Which fill immensity. 

In vain, in vain, for mortal ken 
Those distant orbs had shone ; 

Not even Newton's mighty mind 
More than one sun had known. 

And thus it is that adverse hours 

The human soul lays bare, 
And shows the dread, tremendous powers 

We never dreamed of there. 

Lo ! if our life were one of ease, 

From care forever free, 
We could not ever tell how sweet 

E'en joy itself might be. 

For morn of joy will brighter shine 

Believed by sorrow's night, 
As shadows on the canvas make 

The brighter hues more bright. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 207 



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fc H ! I atn lonely now ; 
I miss the gentle pressure of thy hand 
Upon the burning fever of my brow, 
Like heaven's sweet clew upon the desert sand, 
Shedding reviving moisture on the sun parched land. 

I should not be alone 
If thou, dear one, wert not amongst the dead ; 

But solitary now, I make my moan, 
And my sad, lonely heart will not be comforted. 

But if the spirit e'er 
May hover round each recollected scene, 

Eevisiting again the darkened sphere 
In which its brightness hath enshrouded been, 
As vesper's light is veiled by gathering clouds at 
even, 

Then, dear one, come to me ; 
But not encircled in thy gloomy shroud ; 

Come with the health bloom that was wont 
to be 
Suffused upon thy cheek, as yon bright cloud 
On the horizon where the western heavens are 
bowed. 



208 THE POETICAL WOBKS OF 

Oh ! come to ine at eve. 
When for each flower that blooms along the vale, 

The softened moonbeams silvery garments 
weave, 
Oh ! then come softly as the down doth sail 
Upon the dove like pinions of the gentle gale. 

Oh ! come amidst the night, 
When dark its curtain droops on earth below, 

Or when pale Luna with her chastened light, 
May o'er the world her gauze like mantle throw ; 
For me thy coming would be morning's brightest glow. 

And shouldst thou be as air, 
Or as the mists that rise from yonder stream, 

'Twill cheer the darkness of my soul's despair, 
E'en though thy shade should all unreal seem, 
Like unsubstantial shadow of a flitting dream. 

Alas ! it may not be ; 
'Twould give thy happy spirit too much pain, 

Once more this darkened prison house to see, 
Where groan responsive sounds to groan again — 
Its sorrows but too true, its joys illusive, vain. 

But I may go to thee, 
In those blest realms above yon star lit sky, 

Where, with angelic pinions waving free, 
We'll roam forever through the worlds on high, 
In rapturous life that knows not what it is to die. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 209 



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I SAW the Afric chieftain stand 
Upon the Alpine heigh t, 
And gaze intently on the land 
Which owned the Roman's might. 

Before him, with its wealth and pride, 

The fair Ausonia lay, 
Adorned in beauty as a bride 

Upon her nuptial day. 

Her skies were clear, her waters still, 
And softly sighed the gale ; 

Peace sat upon each vine clad hill, 
And plenty filled each vale. 

But, oh ! o'er his prophetic soul 
What different visions came ! 

He saw her streams with slaughter roll, 
Her cities wrapped in flame. 

Ticinus broke upon his view, 

And Trebia's fatal shore, 
Where many a chilled battalion knew 

Life's kindling warmth no more. 



210 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Dread Thrasymenes was dark revealed 
By morning mists o'erspread, 

And awful Cannae's burdened field 
Piled with the mounds of dead. 

Enough ! enough ! Boll, up the view- 
He saw the debt of years, 

To Carthage and to vengeance due, 
Discharged in blood and tears. 

Enough ! his soul would see no more — 

Well is the oath obeyed, 
Which at his sire's command he swore— 

Nor mercy checked his blade. 

Roll up the view — no further show 

The dark designs of fate, 
Nor point to Zama's field of woe, 

And Carthage desolate. 

Oh ! let him see the coming hour 
With hope triumphant bright ; 

But veil the after clouds that lower, 
In mercy from his sight. 

Point not to far Bythinia's land, 
The witness of his doom — 

To that inhospitable strand 
Marked by the exile's tomb. 






JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 211 



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IT is a balmy summer night, and still ; 
The gentle breeze is stealing o'er the earth ; 
I hear its harping on the pine clacl hill, 
Sighing like visitant of heavenly birth, 

Whose softened accents whisper words of peace, 
As with a dream like voice to one asleep, 

And bid the jarring strifes of men to cease, 
Like the subsiding of the stormy deep. 

The moon's pale sickle glimmers in the sky 
Far o'er the summit of yon mountain's crest ; 

And the unnumbered stars that beam on high 
Are sweetly shining on a world at rest. 

It is a calm, a contemplative hour, 

When naught disturbs the soul's imaginings ; 

And thoughts, piled up on thoughts, sublimely tower 
Higher than e'er was reached by eaglet's wings. 

Now, oh ! how vain appear all things below ! 

The pride and pomp of mightiest empires vain ! 
E'en earth's vast orb, and all it can bestow, 

Seem like a drop in the unbounded main; 



212 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



The aspiring spirit spurns the weak control 
That binds its pinions to this earthly clod, 

And far beyond, where mightiest tempests roll, 
Seeks for its home above the stars of God. 

'Twas thus the apostle of the Gentiles, caught 
Up to the seventh heaven's world of light, 

Saw realms of glory with effulgence fraught, 
Such as might not be borne by mortal sight. 

Oh ! there are thoughts that may not uttered be, 
Whose import, deep, no language may portray, 

Which, in the depths of dread immensity, 
E'en like the vanished Pleiad, fade away, 

And go to wander in a void unknown, 
Far, far beyond the piercing gaze of men, 

Where light of solar ray hath never shone — 
Beyond, perhaps, the mightiest angel's ken. 

To one whose spirit is attuned aright, 
There is a music in the rolling spheres ; 

And solemn strains, borne on the wings of night, 
Peal the triumphant march of onward years. 

The ages which are past and yet to be, 
In dread unending series, come and go, 

Like mighty rivers rolling to the sea, 

Or tramping legions shaking earth below. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 213 

And on, still on, the conquering decades press, 
Before whose charge step mightiest empires fall, 

Till earth and stars shall shrink to nothingness, 
And sun grow dim, and God be all in all. 



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There is a mountain whence Boabdil, the last Moorish monarch of Gra- 
nada, is said to have taken his farewell look at the kingdom wrested from him 
by the army of Ferdinand and Isabella. This spot is still called the place of 
the last sigh of the Moor. Xenil is a river flowing by Granada. 

THE sparkling wave of Xenil flowed, 
And smiled in morning's light; 
Granada's lofty turrets glowed 
Upon the monarch's sight. 

He'd battled for Granada long, 

And held the foe at bay ; 
But proved the Christian might too strong, 

And he must now away! 

No more his feet must tread the floor 

Of his ancestral hall, 
And he the earth must wander o'er, 

An exile from its wall. 

The glory of Alhambra's dome 

Must flash on other eyes ; 
And he must find a distant home 

'Neath unaccustomed skies. 



214 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

He paused upon the mountain's height ; 

He gazed. The look, his last 1 
And tears that dimmed his aching sight 

Came pouring thick and fast. 

For the last time he gazed upon 

Where he was wont to dwell ; 
His bosom heaved a deep wrung groan — 

He breathed a last farewell ! 

There were the lovely scenes that smiled 

Upon his youthful heart. 
When he in years was but a child — 

And must he now depart ? 

There were the halls where he had reigned 

In flush of manhood's pride; 
The cross gleamed where the crescent waved- 

His heart within him died. 

He paused ; he looked ; he breathed a sigh : 

The winds of heaven bore 
Aloft into the clear blue sky 

The last sigh of the Moor. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACKWELL. 215 



ALAS ! it is not always gay 
And fair as Eden's bowers; 
December will succeed to May, 
And withered weeds to flowers. 

O'er youth will Hope its halo throw 
Bright as the skies of even; 

But, oh! it fades as twilight's glow 
Upon the brow of heaven. 

Oft to our gaze the skies unfold 
Rocks, trees, and cities proud ; 

We enter them, and lo, behold, 
'Tis all but mist and cloud ! 

And thus unreal are the dreams 

Of life to youthful eyes ; 
As beautiful, as bright they seem 

As those illusive skies. 

A glory, as of morn, will rest 

Upon the coming years ; 
But, oh ! when of those years possessed 

The glory disappears. 



216 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



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THE last adieu is spoken now, 
And I from thee must part; 
Death's shadow is upon thy brow — 
Its gloom upon my heart. 

Forever closed are those dear eyes, 

Thy smile no more Til see ; 
And dark on earth the future lies — 

A dreary waste to me. 

I am as the complaining dove, 

Forsaken and alone, 
That calleth for its absent love 

In wild and plaintive tone. 

But, oh! that dove no more will find 
On earth its perished mate ; 

And I, to equal woe consigned, 
Like it, must bear my fate. 

No more on earth thy voice will come 
To cheer my hours of gloom ; 

For thou hast found thy last long home 
In the enshrouding tomb. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 217 

My footsteps tread our vacant hall, 

Ah, once how bright and fair ! 
The shadow of thy funeral pall 

Alone now lingers there. 

As busy memory wanders through 

The scenes of happier years, 
My heart grows liquid at the view, 

And pours itself in tears. 

But though thoti art within thy grave, 

My broken heart must say, 
Blessed be the righteous Lord who gave, 

E'en when he takes away. 

And, oh ! what consolation sweet 

To my sad heart is given, 
To think that though on earth we'll meet 

No more, we'll meet in heaven ! 

And, oh! if from the eternal sphere 

Of joy and purity, 
Unseen, thy shade may hover near, 

My guardian spirit be. 

And when my soul shall wing its flight 
From earth and heavenward rise, 

Thyself, an angel, lead in light 
My pathway to the skies. 



218 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



THEEE never yet was stormy cloud 
That did not pass away ; 
Or night arrayed in sable shroud, 
That did not yield to day. 

And thus the sorrows dark, that loom 
In deepening shades of wrath, 

Shall be dispersed, and joy illume, 
With brightening smiles, our path. 






Upon its folds the storm doth wear 
Its glorious arch of light ; 

And darkening skies of evening bear 
The thousand stars of night. 

And thus, amid our deepest woe, 
There gleams a heavenly ray. 

No path so lone but what there grow 
Sweet flowers upon the way. 



SOFT blow, thou breeze, on the breast of the 
blossom, 
Where, sweet on the boughs of the wild cherry tree 
It unfolds to the morning its snowy white bosom, 
And blooms in its glory o'er Eva and me. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLAGKWELL. 219 

Fair spring, ye violets, by the stream flowing, 
Unclosing to light your sweet petals of blue, 

Like the tears of the rainbow, in beauty bestrewing 
The earth as ye glitter in bright morning dew. 

Sing on, ye birdlings, your carols rejoicing, 

And murmur, ye bees, mid the apple trees' bloom ; 
'Tis the music of love in your gladness you're 
voicing, 
And the soft sigh of love wakes the flow'rets' per- 
fume. 

'Tis the warm breath of love that unchains the bright 
fountains, 

And bids their clear waters in murmurs to flow ; 
'Tis love that arrays in their verdure the mountains, 

And sprinkles with daisies the vales lying low. 

Love reigneth on earth and love reigneth in heaven, 
O'er mortals below and o'er angels above; 

And the purest of raptures God e'er hath given, 
On earth or in heaven, are the raptures of love. 



220 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



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I AM on earth alone ! No human eye 
Bends on ine now its look of tenderness ; 
But unfamiliar forms are passing by, 
All heedless of my bosom's deep distress. 

There are bright glances ; laughter, pealing loud, 
And the sweet smiles of happiness I see 

Mantling each cheek with joy. But, oh! a cloud- 
A dark, a gloomy cloud — frowns over me. 

Dive down, ye griefs, into my bosom's deep ; 

Ye have no business in a world of joy. 
There in that charnel vault forever sleep ; 

Why should ye others' happiness annoy ? 

We hide the loathsome corpse away from sight 
In the dark chambers of the sepulchre ] 

And it is only mid the gloom of night 
The pale, foreboding spectre dare appear. 

Then cease, mine eye, to drop the briny tear ; 

And ye, my bosom, only inward groan ; 
And let my spirit's deep despair appear 

To the all piercing eye of God alone. 



JAMES DERUYTER BLACK WELL. 221 



OH ! for a kindred spirit, who might be 
E'en as a second self — an image bright 
Reflected to my gaze, where I might see 

Depicted in true colors every light 
And shadow of my soul — whose sight 

Would be as if I looked into the wave 
Where placid waters to repose invite ; 
As if Heaven's bounty to my bosom gave 
A severed self to meet beyond the grave. 

I am on earth alone. There is no heart 

Whose pulses beat in unison with mine. 
I wander lonely through the busy mart 

Of mighty cities, where all realms combine 
To swell the human tide from lands where shine 

The tropic suns, and from the arctic zone, 
Eound whose rude cliffs the snow wreaths e'er en- 
twine ; 

And solitary still I make my moan. 

I know no kindred heart ; I am alone, alone. 

I am mid strangers on my native earth, 
I do not understand their forms of speech, 

Though I have heard their accents from my birth ; 
I cannot learn their meaning, nor can teach 



222 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

To them mine own. We are beyond the reach 
Of mutual comprehension, and the tone 

Of social converse seems as if the breach 
Of ocean yawned between us. All unknown 
And foreign is their accent. Oh, I am alone ! 

There is no answering echo to the strain 
Of heavenly music which my bosom fills. 

No heart responsive gives me back again 

The pealing anthem's swelling note which thrills 

My soul. No human sympathy distils, 
As the sweet dew upon my heart's unrest, 

A healing balm for all the varied ills 
With which at times my spirit is possessed, 
E'en as wild, troubled waters surging in the 
breast. 

And as the desert bird, whose view to bless 

No tree nor flow'ret blooms far o'er the ground, 
Save where the date palm waves in loneliness, 

Eendering the solitude but more profound, 
I dwell amid a peopled solitude 

In utter listlessness. Unmoved I see 
The empty hopes and fears which there intrude. 

Those hopes and fears are meaningless to me ; 
They are but as the feeble echoes thrown 
From some far distant cliff. I am alone ! 



JAMES DERUTTER BLACK WELL. 223 



THIRTIETH ODE, THIRTY-THIRD BOOK. 

SO, it is finished now, the mighty task 
That Heaven has laid upon me is fulfilled ; 
The tempest hath passed o'er me, and I bask 
In the calm sunlight, and the waves are stilled. 

Oh ! I have had such visions, dread, sublime, 
That shook the soul as with an earthquake shock, 

And thoughts that far transcend the bounds of time, 
Swelling like waves upon the ocean rock. 

And I have sent forth on the viewless wind, 
My spells and my enchantment with a power 

The mightiest spirits of mankind to bind, 

With their weird influence, to earth's latest hour. 

And I have reared a mightier monument 
Than ever yet was built of bronze or stone. 

When Rome's proud columns shall, in ruin blent, 
Fall crumbling to the dust unmarked, unknown, 

My name shall live on undiscovered shores 
Where Roman eagles never yet were seen, 

Beyond where the Atlantic billow roars, 
Farther than e'er Phoenician keel hath been. 



224 BLACKWELUS POETICAL WORKS. 

The day shall come, the dread, avenging day, 

When barbarous chiefs shall spurn the Caesar's 
pride, 

When Boroe's triumphal arches shall decay, 
And conquering foemen camp on Tiber's side. 

But, oh ! around the poet's deathless name 
Are wreathed the garlands which shall never fade, 

But in their freshness shall remain the same 

Through time's long lingering decades undecayed. 







